It's Hard Being A Gentleman
by susx
Summary: "Just because two people dislike each other, it doesn't mean they're about to kiss!" Set post-Haven, Varric and Cassandra learn they're not as different as they had thought.
1. Chapter 1

Varric whistled as he walked up the tavern steps. He paused at the second landing as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. The bottom floor was loud and boisterous. Inquisitor Trevalyn had announced his engagement to Lady Josephine Montilyet, and Iron Bull, who never missed an opportunity to celebrate with a drink, had insisted on dragging the companions down to the tavern to toast the happy couple. As the news had circulated, most of Skyhold had shown up to the Tavern to pay the happy couple their respects; and, in some cases, to stay and drink and make merry.

Varric approved. The dark days after Haven still weighed heavily on everyone's mind, and there was nothing like a love story and a little drinking and camaraderie to raise everyone's mood.

He slipped out between toasts to see if he could track down Cole. Cole wasn't there; no doubt he was helping someone's sick cat, or…whatever it was he did. But now that he had decided to become more human, he needed to indulge his human side a little more. Party, have fun.

As his eyes adjusted to the dimness on the second floor, he caught something out of the corner of his eye. Someone drinking. Alone. In the darkest corner of the room.

Varric shrugged. If someone wanted to drink alone, they usually had a good reason. He wasn't about to interrupt them. Until a hand was raised to lift a glass, and Varric caught a flash of white, a glimpse of a white eye wreathed in flame painted on the chest piece of leather armor.

Cassandra.

Cassandra...drinking? Alone?

Varric sighed. He knew he'd have to go check on her, but Cassandra wasn't exactly his most favorite person in the world. In fact, until recently, Cassandra had probably been one of his least favorite people. Having someone interrogate you for hours at a time was not an experience Varric would recommend, and Cassandra had been ruthlessly efficient at it. Not unkind, in her way. When Cassandra had told him she had had every right to torture him, she was being honest. Most Seekers probably would have. But Cassandra had had her own sense of honor, and while the questioning was tiring and exhausting, it was never brutal.

Still, it wasn't the sort of experience that would endear you to anyone.

In the weeks and months since then, he and Cassandra had settled into…well, not liking, but perhaps a slightly contentious peace. They put aside their differences for the good of the Inquisition, but never really attempted to cross paths.

He slowly made his way over to her table. She raised her eyes as she heard him approach, nursing a glass filled with amber colored liquid, a bottle of half-full Antivan brandy on the table.

Varric raised his eyebrows. Half a bottle of Antivan brandy and she was still sitting upright? Impressive.

He plastered a grin on his face and sat down opposite to her. "Ah, Seeker! I was just looking for you. We were about to start a game of Wicked Grace downstairs. I thought you might like to join us. Might give me an opportunity to win more money off of you."

The Seeker looked at him, sourly. "Yes, Varric. Because surely someone drinking by themselves is just waiting for you to come along for an invitation to play cards. Leave me alone." She picked up her glass, and downed the rest of the Antivan Brandy in one swallow, and slowly poured herself another glass.

Her words were unslurred, the only thing betraying her drunkness her too-careful movements.

Varric sighed. Her mood was even worse than he thought.

"All right, Seeker, I'll cut the shit. What's wrong with you?"

He thought she might answer, for a second. She swallowed, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. But then she turned sour again, mocking.

"Nothing, Varric. I'm not entitled to a drink now and again? You drink yourself shit-faced with Bull every week, and it's all in good fun, but I have a drink or two and something must be wrong?"

She sneered at him, picked up her glass again and downed it in one gulp, shoved her chair back, and got up. It would have been a magnificent exit, had she not spoiled the effect by moving too fast and having to grab onto the table to keep from falling.

"Easy, Seeker, easy!" He moved over to support her and grabbed her waist, which was a mistake. She lurched into him, whether for support or to push him away, he wasn't certain. But the effect of her movement and drunkenness almost made her fall. She went to her knees and only Varric holding her up prevented her from falling entirely.

"Now look what you did!" she shouted, as she lurched to her feet.

Varric struggled to regain some control of the situation. "Look, Seeker, I don't know what's wrong, and you don't have to tell me. But you're letting me walk you to your room. You've had enough."

Cassandra looked like she was about to argue, but surprisingly, after a moment, her shoulders slumped and she acquiesced.

"All right, Varric."

"Come on, then," he said, placing her hand on his shoulder, and walking her over to the steps. "Put your other hand on the railing, and take it slow. And don't fall."

She concentrated, and walked slowly down the steps to the bustling first floor of the tavern.

Josephine and Trevalyn appeared before Varric could get Cassandra out the door.

Trevalyn, his arm around Josephine, inquired, "Leaving so soon?" His white teeth shone out of his blonde, bearded face in a smile.

"Uh, yes," Varric said. "Long day tomorrow. Besides, wanted to save some of the alcohol for everyone else. But congratulations again. We both know you'll be very happy. Isn't that right, Seeker?"

He looked up at Cassandra for confirmation, and in a brief instant, saw a look of longing and despair, before her mask slipped back into place again. "Of course!" she said. "Have a good night and enjoy your celebration!"

As Josephine and Trevalyn moved off, Varric navigated them to the door again.

"So Trevalyn's the problem," Varric said softly as they exited the tavern into the cold night air. "No shame in that, Seeker."

He half expected a hot denial, so was surprised when she only sighed and said, "Don't be a fool, Varric."

The rest of the walk was in silence, her hand gripping his shoulder occasionally for support, especially as they went into the darkened blacksmith, the only light coming from the banked coals of the forge, and up the two flights of stairs to her room.

"Well, here we are," he said as they reached the third floor and he saw her pallet on the floor. He helped support her as she half-fell, half-collapsed on top of her covers.

"Just get some sleep and you'll be as good as new in the morning. Or, with how much you drank, maybe good as new tomorrow evening," he joked.

Varric turned to leave, but stopped as her hand reached out to grab his shoulder again.

He was looking into her face as she was on her knees. He could hardly see her in the dark. Only her rich, dark eyes, wet with tears.

"Varric, please. Don't leave. I'm so…alone."

Her words came out in a whisper, carrying the scent of the brandy she had drunk, a heady smell, mixed with the smell of her leathers and…flowers? Her soap?

He was dazed. Never in a million years would he have thought of the Seeker… but before he could think any further, her lips came brushing against his, feather light, then harder, seeking, her tongue probing his mouth.

She pressed up against him, her hips grinding against his. She murmured, "I've been so alone, so long…please, just for tonight."

Without thinking, he responded, twining his hands in her hair, trailing kisses across her throat, finding a spot along her jaw that made her gasp in pleasure when he used his mouth to suck on it and nip it gently.

Her mouth sought his again, as she kissed him, open-mouthed, her tongue warring with his, while her hands fumbled with the straps on her leathers, and she discarded the hard leather chest piece to the floor.

Varric had a good idea of what kind of man he was. Not perfect, by the Maker, but not the kind to take advantage of a drunk woman. But if he stayed much longer, he was going to end up doing something he would regret.

He broke the kiss, regretfully, and stepped back. Damn, this was one of the harder things he'd ever done.

She used the interruption to quickly shuck her padded undertunic and breast band.

He sucked a breath inward. Maker, but she was beautiful, and his hands itched to touch her, the toned olive skin criss-crossed with silver and pink scars, her but before he could, she moved closer, untying his sash, and grasping on to the bottom of his tunic, her fingernails raking his chest as she moved upward, grazing his nipples, and—

"Damn it, Cassandra, no!" he said, through his teeth, clinging to his feeble threads of self-control, wondering if he was an idiot for refusing what was being so freely offered…but no, he would hate himself in the morning. And she would hate herself.

She recoiled as if he had slapped her. "I…I…I'm sorry, Varric. So sorry." She laid down on her pallet, back to him, curled up in a ball.

He raised his eyes to the ceiling, blessing or cursing the Maker, he wasn't sure anymore, and took a few deep breaths. He was about to turn to leave, again, when he saw her shoulders shaking on the pallet. Just shaking. And then a gulp that sounded like a half-strangled sob.

He wanted to leave. But the same honor that prevented him from taking advantage now prevented him from leaving. Leave a crying woman? He couldn't.

He sighed, got down on his knees, and placed his hand on her back. Her voice cracked as she said, "What, Varric? I'm sorry for everything. You can leave."

"No," he said. He sighed again. He lay down behind her, spooning her, comforting her with his touch. "I'm lonely too. Now go to sleep."

He braced for an argument, but got none. The shuddering gradually subsided, her broken breathing became more regular, as he held her around her waist, pressed against her back, occasionally making reassuring noises as a sob broke through. Eventually her breathing turned even and regular as she fell asleep.

Varric gently rose, and got to his feet, tucking a blanket over top of the sleeping Seeker. "Good night, Cassandra," he whispered, before he turned around and finally left.


	2. Chapter 2

Cassandra awoke, as usual, before dawn. She pushed herself up, ready to begin her stretching exercises, and was suddenly made aware something was terribly, terribly wrong.

The movement to stand up had left her dizzy. The room began to spin, while a thousand small knives chose that moment to begin stabbing her head.

The truth rolled over her along with a wave of nausea. She had been drinking last night. No, not just drinking. She had chosen to get shit-faced. Trevelyan had unexpectedly announced his engagement to Josephine. She had nursed…well, not hopes, precisely, but his flirting, his admiration of her, his sunny good looks, his selfless dedication to others and the Maker…

Well, that was over and done with. She had chosen to chase her disappointment to the bottom of a bottle, a mistake she had made rarely, but always regretted. She shook her head slightly at her foolishness.

A sensible person, having nothing pressing to take care of, would stay in bed until she recovered. Cassandra though, like many religious, stubborn people, had a desire to pay for her sins. She tightened her lips, and ignoring the pounding in her head and the lurching in her stomach, began to stretch. If she was so foolish as to drink herself insensible, she was determined that it wouldn't affect her training routine the next day.

She shook her arms to loosen them, feeling her muscles and joints protest, and began to count arm circles.

_One…two…thr….FUCK!_

Blessed Andraste and all her fucking children. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

She didn't just drink last night. She pulled the memories to her, though they seemed hazy and insubstantial as dreams. Varric, walking her back to her room. Kissing…Varric. Taking off her armor. Varric, behind her in bed, holding her tightly.

Oh, sweet Maker.

She tried to push more memories to the surface, but the harder she tried, the more they seemed to slip from her grasp. Whispered endearments…caresses…and nothing. Nothing. She couldn't fill in the details.

She swore, and her stomach lurched.

She smiled grimly. Abandoning any pretense of doing her exercises, she threw her clothes on and ran a comb through her hair. She observed herself critically in her small mirror. She could probably stand to rebraid her hair, but that would have to wait until her balance was steadier. Otherwise, she looked surprisingly better than she felt. She touched a small red spot on her neck, proof of what she had been doing last night to anyone observant enough to look. She blushed, and turned away.

What was done was done.

She decided her first order of business should be to get some breakfast. She usually skipped the meal in the ordinary course of things-she never liked to have anything on her stomach before exercising in the morning-but she knew from past experience that something on her stomach would help her feel better.

As she marched over to the soldiers' chow hall, the cold, bracing air helped her feel a bit more human. The hall was blessedly empty this time of morning, with only a few soldiers she didn't recognize, all absorbed in eating their breakfasts and going to whatever duties called them at this time of morning.

She had just settled herself on a bench at a solitary table, with a large chunk of bread and a hearty helping of some kind of greasy meat that she wasn't sure she cared to identify, trying to convince her stomach that eating _would_ make her feel better, when someone settled in to the place across from her.

Leliana. Wonderful.

"Cassandra, we don't often see you here at this time of morning," Leliana said, smiling as she glanced down at Cassandra's hearty breakfast. "In fact, the last time I remember seeing you at breakfast was the day after Justinia declared a holiday to celebrate-"

"Enough!" Cassandra growled, cutting Leliana off. "I had too much to drink last night. There, happy? Any chance I can eat my breakfast in silence without you twitting me?"

"Certainly," Leliana said, taking a sip of her tea and looking at Cassandra.

Was it just her imagination or did Leliana's eyes linger over-long on her neck, her lips quirking in amusement?

Cassandra fought the momentary, childish urge to pull her shirt up.

She concentrated on her breakfast and had eaten about half until she could stomach no more. She did feel slightly better though. She no longer got dizzy every time she moved, and the pounding in her head had receded from excruciating to bearable.

"Good day, Leliana," Cassandra said, as she excused herself from the table. She had no more than taken one step from the table, however, when Leliana's voice stopped her.

"He's an earlier riser than you would think. At this time of the morning, he's usually either practicing with Bianca or writing in his room."

Cassandra whirled around, instantly regretting the quick movement, which her head reminded her was a bad idea, breakfast or no breakfast.

"Does everyone know?" she asked.

Leliana sat back, thoughtful. "No. More than likely, just me. But it's my job to know everything that everyone does around here."

"Lucky me, then," Cassandra said sarcastically.

Leliana inclined her head and went back to nibbling on her toast.

After walking by the archery field and not finding him, she went to his room, on the second floor of Skyhold, overlooking the chantry garden. Thankfully, it was a sparsely populated area at best, and at this time of the morning, completely deserted. She hesitated outside his door. What was she going to say?

Varric, did we sleep together last night? Varric, I'm sorry? Varric, don't tell anyone? Varric, what I remember was wonderful, so thank you?

Definitely not that last one.

She settled for knocking twice on the door, firmly enough that he should hear her if he was awake, softly enough he might be able to ignore it if he was still asleep. She waited, and was finally about to give up and move away, when the door opened to reveal Varric, looking as cheerful and chipper as always.

Her mind reeled to connect the Varric that stood in front of her to the soft lips and tender voice she remembered from last night. Maybe she had imagined the whole thing? But no, she hadn't.

"Varric, I…" she stumbled for words, "I came to…I—".

He cut her off. "Seeker, come in and have a seat," he said, opening the door wider, gesturing to the chair next to his desk. His papers, quills, ink and reading glasses were spread out on the desk, indicating she had interrupted him at his writing.

"Oh no," she said, shifting uncomfortably. "I just came to say-".

"I insist," he said. "I somehow figured you'd be over here bright and early to yell at me or whatever you figured you'd do this morning, instead of staying in bed and yelling at me this evening, like any sensible person would. But before you do anything, I figured you might as well be comfortable."

He pointed to a cup on the side of his desk. "Varric Tethras's patented hangover remedy. I'm making a mint importing it into Orzammar. Hasn't broken in to the surface markets yet, but it's only a matter of time. Maybe I can get an endorsement from the Hero of Orlais?" he asked, grinning.

He pressed the cup into her hand. "Sit. Drink."

Unwillingly, she sat down and sniffed the brown liquid in the cup. It smelled…not unpleasant. Like herbs. Ginger and…mint?

She continued to sip on the liquid as Varric reseated himself, put on his glasses, and went back to his writing. It felt...surprisingly intimate, watching him at his work.

Whenever she wrote, she would frown and write painstakingly, as the words on the paper rarely matched the images and phrases in her head. It was like the harder she tried to express herself, the harder it was for the words to come. She wrote as though she was going to war, and each word an enemy she had to beat into submission.

Varric, by contrast, wrote like he was born with a quill in his hand. Free and easy, rarely stopping, occasionally smiling to himself as though he was particularly pleased with the way a certain sentence or phrase had turned out.

But, she had come over here to speak. To apologize. Not watch him write. She looked down at the empty cup and felt the remaining vestiges of her headache draining away.

He looked up at her, finally, smiling. "Did the remedy work?"

"Yes, thank you." She rushed on, before her courage could abandon her, "Varric, I came over here to apologize for last night. I make no excuses for my behavior. From what I remember, I was very….forward." Her cheeks flared into color. Forward wasn't quite the word for what she remembered. Wanton, perhaps?

She dropped her face so he wouldn't see her blush, "Unfortunately, I can't remember everything…" she trailed off. "But I behaved….badly, and I apologize to you. I would ask you to keep this... between us."

Varric took his glasses off and leaned back in his chair. "Seeker, this is so like you," he said, shaking his head. "Taking responsibility when everything was my fault. If anyone should apologize, it's me. I thought," he shrugged, "you were lonely and perhaps might like to be…well…you are a beautiful woman, Seeker."

"But you sent me away with a flea in my ear. Can't blame a man for trying, anyway, can you? If you won't tell anyone else about this, though, I'd be grateful. Can't believe the chest hair didn't work," he said, mock-mournfully, winking at her. "If this gets out, my reputation will be ruined. Forgive me, though?" he said, entreatingly.

Cassandra stared at him. That was not the way she remembered the evening. Could he be right? Could her mind have played tricks on her?

_I've been so alone, so long…_kissing his lips …_Damn it, Cassandra, no!.._pulling away from her.

No, she wasn't imagining things. She had behaved in a way she wasn't proud of. And she had no right to demand he accept her apology. But for him not to accept it or deny it, but to sit there, lying, winking… _laughing_… at her? How dare he?

She rose to her feet. "What in the name of Andraste are you trying to pull, Varric? I'm sorry! Did you hear that dwarf?" she shouted. "I'm sorry! I never should have done what I did. It was a mistake. But for you to sit there…"

She searched for the words to express herself. Frustrated, she ran her hands through her hair. "For you to sit there…mocking me? Laughing at me? I know we're not friends, but...this?"

Varric stared at her, astonished. "Seeker, I don't know what you're thinking—"

"Enough!" She interrupted him, anguished, then strode to the door, seizing the knob in her hands. She looked over her shoulder and said, more softly, "I suppose I've earned your low opinion. I'll stay as far away from you as it's possible to get from now on. Again...I'm sorry for everything."

"Cassandra, wait! Don't go!" he said, getting up from his desk and grabbing her hand. "Please, just...sit," he said, inclining his head toward her chair.

"Why, Varric?" she spat. "So you can mock me again?"

"No," he said, exasperated, rubbing his forehead. "Just, please. Sit," he entreated.

Something in his voice, the tiredness, maybe, made her take her seat again. Against her better judgment, she sat, perched at the edge of her seat, the picture of an unwilling participant in whatever conversation they were about to have.

"You know," he said, reseating himself at his desk , looking at her, "You don't make this easy."

She kept a stubborn silence. Whatever he had to say, he could say it without her help.

He looked at her for a while, then sighed and looked down at his hands. "You know, I've been an ass to you in the past. I was pissed." He shrugged. "Who wouldn't be? Your city has blown up, there's fighting in the streets, one of your former closest friends was responsible, and just when you think your life couldn't get any more shitty, here comes a Seeker who thinks you owe her the answers to everything, without even telling you what she's looking for and why!"

"Yeah," he said, laughing bitterly. "I was pissed. But you know what? I realized I took shit out on you that wasn't your fault. I was angry at Anders, I was angry at Meredith, I was angry at Orsino…I was angry at a lot of people. You were just trying to do your job, the same as me. You were a convenient target. I figured that out a while ago, only I never said anything. It was easier not to. So…I'm the one who should be sorry, Seeker."

She looked at him, her anger melting away. She impulsively reached over and grabbed his hand on the desk, squeezing it. "Thank you, Varric," she said. "And I never apologized to you either. I was harsher than I should have been. I knew things between the Templars and Chantry were…tense," she said, settling on the word, "and I was more angry with you than I should have been. I saw a problem to be solved with you standing in the way. But what does any of that have to do with," and here she blushed, "your mocking me about last evening?"

"Cassandra," he said, taking her other hand and looking into her eyes, "I would never, ever, do that. I was just trying to make life easier on one of my _friends_," he emphasized the word. "You said you didn't remember much, and I saw how embarrassed you were…well.." he shrugged. "Just thought my version might be easier."

"Oh," she said, biting her lip. "I'm sorry. Again. This time for rushing to judgment."

"Nothing to apologize for."

She sat for a few moments with him in companionable silence, looking down at their intertwined hands. She had never before realized how large his hands were. She wasn't a small woman, but her rough, chapped hands were nearly engulfed by his. It also didn't hurt that his hands were warm. Far warmer than anything in this damp, drafty castle had any right to be.

Emboldened by their closeness, she asked, awkwardly, staring down at their hands to avoid looking him in the eye. "I still don't exactly remember…did we do anything last night…we'd regret?"

"No," he said. "I just ended up holding you until you went to sleep."

Cassandra released a breath she didn't know she was holding. She felt overwhelmingly relieved, but a small, traitorous portion of her mind that she didn't know existed seemed oddly disappointed. _Don't be absurd_, she told herself. _He's not even your type. He's nothing like Galyan. And not even a day ago, you were thinking about Trevelyan. Get it together._

"Thank you, Varric," she said firmly, releasing his hands and rising. "I guess I should leave you to your writing if you're going to get anything done this morning. I've taken up enough of your time."

He rose as well to walk her to the door.

"Varric?" she said impulsively, turning, before she walked out the door, "It's good to have a friend. It's been awhile."

"You, Seeker?" he said, mock-disbelievingly. "With your gentle personality, charm, and sense of humor? Not to mention your book-stabbing abilities? I don't believe it."

"I'll have you know I DO have a sense of humor," she said, her forbidding growl belied by the smile playing on her lips. "In fact, I think my sense of humor is the only thing keeping me from throwing you over the ramparts right now."

"I won't push my luck then, Seeker," he said, grinning up at her. "I'm glad you're feeling better, too. About that endorsement…"

"No, Varric!" she said, striding away, before he could see her grin.

"I had to try!" he called from behind her.

She took the steps down to the main floor of Skyhold, two at a time, happier than she had been in…well, awhile. But there was plenty of time to analyze why later. For now she needed to catch up on her training.

She jogged over to the training dummies in the courtyard of the castle and began to stretch, her breath steaming in the cold morning.

_One…two…three…_

This time, there were no interruptions.


	3. Chapter 3

"…and again, Varric, thank you. I appreciate it, I truly do. Hopefully she knows something that can help us. So…" Gareth Trevelyan paused. "Were you going to tell the Seeker or did you want me to try to smooth things over?"

"How do you know I haven't told her already?" Varric returned.

The blond man looked Varric up and down. "Let's see…how do I know? You're still in one piece? Able to walk upright? No broken bones or sucking chest wounds?"

"Very funny, Inquisitor, very funny."

"Wait a second, wait a second…" the blond man mused, walking around Varric, inspecting him. "I _knew_ there was something different about you when you walked in! You're shorter, aren't you?" Gareth grinned. "She took two inches off the top, didn't she? Poor Varric, you didn't have too much to spare to begin with, did you? Send your tailoring bills to me. It's the least I can do."

"Are you quite done?" Varric replied. "I mean, far be it from me to interrupt you if you have more hilarious short dwarf jokes saved up—"

"—I do, as a matter of fact. But that _was_ one of my best ones…maybe I'll just savor it for a few days. Two inches off the top…" Gareth chortled.

Annoyed, Varric crossed his arms. It was probably a measure of how much he was dreading telling the Seeker that he didn't attempt to give as good as he got.

"All right, all right, I'm sorry. But you started it. '_How do you know I haven't told her'_ indeed," Gareth said, still amused.

Varric sighed. "I don't suppose not telling her is an option? Maybe say Hawke is a distant cousin of yours who just happens to look like the Champion? She won second place in the Ostwick 'Best Vivian Hawke Look-Alike Contest'?"

"I know I'm going to regret asking this," Trevelyan said, looking interested in spite of himself, "But why second place? Why not first?"

"It makes the lie more believable. I mean, who knows anyone who wins first at these things? I don't think they actually give out a first. There's just a bunch of runners-up."

Trevelyan nodded. "Makes sense, I guess. But what about stuff she knows that only the Champion would know? How are we going to explain that?"

"Your cousin was actually a spy for the left hand of the Divine. In Kirkwall."

"If Leliana had such a well-informed spy, why did she come to Kirkwall with Cassandra? Why bother interrogating you?"

"I guess if you put it like that, it doesn't make much sense. _You_ come up with something."

There was a long silence. Varric looked at Trevelyan.

Gareth broke the silence first. "So, just to be clear, we're just bullshitting here because neither one of us wants to be the one to break the news to her."

"Yep," Varric agreed.

"Well," Gareth considered, "I guess I can do it. She won't kill me. Maybe if only because of _this_," he said, pointing to the Anchor on his hand.

"Screw it," Varric said. "I guess when you put it like that, it should be me. We need you. Don't want to take any chances with the Seeker and her temper. She might rip your head off before she realized what she'd done. And then where would we be?"

"Well, if that's the case, Varric, you should be safe," Trevelyan replied, beginning to laugh. "She'd reach for your head—"

"Inquisitor?" Varric interrupted, politely.

"Yes?" Trevelyan replied, his shoulders still shaking with mirth.

"Finish that joke and I change my mind."

"Right, sorry. And, in all seriousness, thank you again. I'll go up and talk to Hawke right now."

Varric set off to look for Cassandra. He had never intended, of course, to let Trevelyan tell her. It was his responsibility. Still, he wasn't looking forward to it.

He had written to Hawke, just to see if she could help, had any information on the Grey Wardens. It was a long shot, but he had expected a letter in return. Not Hawke herself, showing up out of the blue, materializing in his room at Skyhold that afternoon as if she had just breezed into The Hanged Man.

But that was Hawke. The master of the unexpected. He had seen the new wrinkles on her face, the silver in her hair, and worried. But he had still been overjoyed to see her, and they had spent a pleasurable few hours together that had involved catching up, joking, and gossiping.

"So, you need information on the Grey Wardens?" she finally asked.

"The Inquisitor does. He feels the Wardens may be involved in this whole mess. I'll get you a room upstairs. Relax a bit, and I'll send him up."

"All right," she said. "But you know, you owe me the biggest drink this godforsaken castle has for coming all the way out here, right?"

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

Varric smiled at the conversation, the satisfaction of knowing that, at the end of the day, he'd be sharing a beer and swapping stories with an old friend.

But first—Cassandra. He grimaced. He didn't actually think Cassandra would physically hurt him. Well, not much, anyway. But she would be upset, and the last thing he wanted to do was upset her—not with the new rapport that had grown between them. In the past two weeks, there had been nothing major. But she had even smiled at his jokes. Laughed a time or two. Asked if he wouldn't mind if she looked at Bianca to see how it worked-something he had been more than glad to show her.

It was surprisingly _nice_. He was helping the Inquisition because, rightly or wrongly, he felt responsible. Or at least, partly. He never even thought Blondie would do—well, what he did. His spies had told him Blondie was up to something, of course. But blowing up the Chantry? Varric had never suspected until it had happened. If Varric closed his eyes, he could still smell it-the smoke, the death. _His fault_.

But this group was nothing like those he had left behind in Kirkwall. A more self-righteous, self-important, humorless collection of people he hadn't seen since the last Dwarven Merchant Guild meeting-which he always tried to avoid. There were a few that were ok. Iron Bull was the best, but Varric was still distrustful of Qunari in general. Cole was just a helpful kid. Spirit. Whatever. Trevelyan and Dorian were amusing in small doses. The rest ranged from somewhat tolerable to near-unbearable.

He had mentally put the Seeker in the latter category, until..._that night_…which had surprised the hell out of him, quite frankly. And even though he knew she had meant nothing by it, the subsequent chink in her carefully donned armor had revealed a person worth knowing. Honest to a fault, loyal, and with a dry sense of humor he loved teasing out.

_Enough daydreaming,_ he mentally chided himself. Nothing for it but to get this over with. He looked in all the usual places. Training dummies, check. Chow hall, check. Blacksmithy, check. He had just started to check the unusual places-the Chantry Garden- when he almost walked right into a boy with an enormous hat. Cole.

"Hey kid," Varric said. "How's it going?"

"An old hurt. The pain-alone now, why couldn't it be me?" Cole inclined his head toward the little used, crumbling, Shrine to Andraste just off the courtyard.

Varric shook his head. "Kid, we've talked about this. You can't be listening all the time anymore. You need to be…more human. You're not just a spirit anymore. You can't help _everyone_."

"Not me, you," Cole said. "She trusts you. She'd tell you. Help the hurt."

Varric liked the kid. He did. But sometimes talking to Cole could give you a headache. In fact, he was getting one right now.

"Yes, well...I'm looking for Cassandra, kid. I need to find her. This will have to wait."

"Yes, Cassandra," Cole said, exasperated. "In there."

_Oh_.

"Thanks, kid," Varric said, clapping Cole on the shoulder before making his way around the courtyard. He hesitated at the door, eyes adjusting to the dimness inside. There was Cassandra kneeling on the hard stone floor, her hands folded, eyes closed, a single lit candle in front of her. She was praying, a verse he vaguely recognized as coming from the Chant for the Departed.

_The Veil holds no uncertainty for him_

_And he will know no fear of death, for the Maker_

_Shall be his beacon and his shield, his foundation and his sword._

Varric stood awkwardly in the doorway, watching her, trying to decide what to do. Even if Cole hadn't told him to find her, he didn't want to wait until later to tell her about Hawke. But he didn't necessarily feel comfortable interrupting her, either. He had just reached the decision to wait outside when she opened her eyes and looked at him.

"I thought I heard someone come in. I'm just surprised to see you here, Varric," Cassandra smiled slightly, though Varric could see her eyes were sorrowful. "Though perhaps I shouldn't be. The peace of the chapel, even in its current state," she gestured at the disorder and dust around her, "is very comforting."

Varric walked in, still hesistant at perhaps having disturbed her in a private moment. "As much as I'd like to say I've turned over a new leaf, I actually came to speak with you. But if this is a bad time…"

She sighed, but still made no move to stand up. "It's not…particularly. Say what it is you have come to say."

Her voice was not unkind or harsh, but weary and sad.

Normally Varric might have beat a hasty retreat. He believed in the Maker—sort of—but churches and chapels were a different story altogether. The chantry had always made it clear that it had room in its ranks only for humans, people of other races be damned. So remaining in the chapel-even this one, so dilapidated it barely merited the name—made him distinctly uncomfortable.

Still, something in her voice—along with Cole's admonition—caused him to want to reach out to her. He came to stand beside Cassandra, then sat down next to her, cross legged on the floor.

"I hope my lack of reverence doesn't offend you, Seeker," he offered. "But I don't know if my knees can handle kneeling on the cold stone for very long. And it would be embarrassing to have to ask you to help me up."

"Always with the jokes, Varric," she said, turning to him and giving him a half smile. "But your heart is in the right place. You are not unlike," her mouth tightened and she slightly stumbled on the words, "how my brother was. How Anthony was."

"Is Anthony—" Varric broke off and nodded at the candle.

"Yes," she said, quietly. "Many years ago, today."

The silence between them stretched out, Cassandra lost in her own thoughts and Varric unsure what to do. If it had been someone else, perhaps, he might have offered a word of condolence, or even a hug. But he wasn't sure how any of them would be received by the Seeker.

Finally, Varric settled on, "Tell me about him. Your brother."

Cassandra's lips tightened again. "Blood mages-they needed a dragon—dragon's blood. So they came to Anthony. When Anthony refused, there was a struggle. He died. I—I," her voice caught, but then she determinedly continued, "I saw him die. Saw them cut his head off."

"No," Varric said, turning to her and laying his hands over top of her folded ones, instinctually, reacting to the pain in her voice. "Tell me about _him_."

"Him?" she said, confused. "I thought I did—"

Varric retreated into the humor that was second nature to him, that would protect him from revealing too much, but also would hopefully help her smile.

"Yes, _him_. Like, you know, when I die, I hope people talk of what a glorious storyteller I was. How my words could make a stone heart weep, a villain regret his sins, a married woman fall in love with a hero she'd never met. How the very sight of Bianca made my enemies run in fear. How my chest hair was so glorious it made both the ladies and the men swoon on sight."

He smiled at her now. "I want them to tell those tales of me. Not how I died, say… by drowning in my own bathtub after I got drunk."

"Oh, Varric," she sighed and laughed at the same time. She paused for a moment and eased her hand behind her to lower herself into a sitting position next to him, still staring at the candle in front of her.

She reached her hand over once more to grasp it in his.

"What shall I say? " She looked up at the ceiling, lost to the reverie of a different time and place. "Anthony was…the sort of person everyone was glad to have met. Always with a joke or a smile. You could _feel_ it, somehow, when he came into a room. You'd be talking, and then you'd sense it. Things just seemed a little…better somehow when he was around. He'd smile, and tell you not to worry about something, and somehow, you'd believe it. Like I said," she continued distractedly, "a lot like you."

Varric was suprised. She thought that about _him_?

"I wasn't that old when my parents died. Were killed," she amended, the pain in her voice again. "I went to live with my uncle. But really all I had was Anthony. He would hear me sometimes at night when I would cry or scream in my sleep. He would come to me and tell me stories."

She looked over at Varric, the tears of old memories glistening in her eyes. He would say, "'Shhh, Cassandra. Let me tell you a story.' And I would listen, my worries forgotten for a time. Oh, the stories he would tell!"

She made a choking sound, and stared once more at the ceiling again until she regained her composure, while Varric held on to her hand as if was her lifeline to him, squeezed it, silently reminding her he was listening, that she had a friend in him.

"Anthony was a great dragon hunter even then. He would tell me stories-silly stories-about his hunts. I was very young." She smiled at a memory. "I'll never forget the time he told me about a riddle contest he had once with a dragon! A riddle contest!" Cassandra shook her head. "I don't know where he came up with some of his stories. If I recall correctly, if Anthony lost, the dragon got to eat him, but if he won, the dragon would leave Nevarra, never to be seen again."

"He told me that when I was older, he'd bring me on dragon hunts with him. I was so pretty, he said, I'd be able to charm the dragons out of the skies, while he crept up behind them and killed them. I'd make his work easy, he said."

She looked over at Varric and smiled again, sadly. "We were going to be the most famous dragon hunters in all of Nevarra. In all of the world."

"I believed him, of course. I was a child. You'd never have thought anything could happen to Anthony. He seemed like he was blessed by the Maker himself."

"Until…" she looked down at the floor, "he wasn't."

"He sounds like a good person," Varric offered, softly.

"He was. I loved him. When he died, I blamed mages. As much I loved my brother, I think I hated the mages more. Hated them all. Even hated the Maker for taking Anthony away from me. Blasphemous, I know."

"I tried to join the Templars when I was older, but the Seekers took me instead. I was lucky to have found a mentor who taught me only hate can come from hate. I was slowly destroying myself on the inside for allowing my hate to consume me."

Varric nodded. "I think I know something about that," he said, thinking of his own brother. "At first, the hate keeps you going. But then…when it gets to the point where that's all that keeps you going, there's nothing else left to hold on to. Nothing worth a damn, anyway."

Varric squeezed her hand beneath his and didn't speak. He held onto the silence-a moment of communion between them, two people from different worlds, but who for the moment understood each other perfectly. Varric felt her curl her fingers around his hand and squeeze back.

They sat there like that for some moments, although whether words were meaningless or simply unnecessary, Varric didn't know.

He thought of Cole as the shadows lengthened around them in the already dim room. Healing the hurt, Cole had said-for him or for her? What was it about the Seeker that prompted his guard to slip? Her inherent honestly? Or something else?

He glanced over at her, sidelong. Her dark eyes stared, slightly unfocused, ahead of her, at the candle she had lit for her brother. She looked peaceful, the lines of her face not tense, as usual, but uncommonly relaxed, contented. _She looked beautiful_, he thought.

Before he could pursue that dangerous thought any further, she glanced over at him and said, "Thank you, Varric. It's been a long time since I talked about my brother. An even longer time since I thought about the stories he used to tell." She smiled at him. "Thank you for listening, my friend."

He broke the moment. "Is it just me, Seeker, or are these stones cold and getting colder?"

He stood, awkwardly, and offered his hand to help her up. She accepted, getting up gracefully, and briefly stretching her legs out.

Just then, Varric heard a voice he had completely forgotten about. A voice, that, under normal circumstances, he would have been thrilled to hear. A voice that he didn't need to hear _right now_.

"I don't know when you've taken to playing hide-and-seek in tumbledown chapels, Varric, but I believe you still owe me a beer!" she called out, stepping into the nearly-dark room. "I had a demon-damn time finding you—"

"Varric," an angry, accented contralto said, "Is that who I think it is?"

Hawke started in surprise at seeking someone else in the chapel. "My apologies, madam," she said, and sketched a bow to Cassandra. "Vivian Hawke at your service."

Vivian looked up and down at Cassandra, then at Varric, smirking. "Though the reason for the hide-and-seek has now revealed itself. Shall I take a rain check on the beer?"

Both women stared at him, one amused, one angry and getting angrier, if Varric was any judge.

Varric groped for something appropriately witty to say. Something that would defuse the situation. Something that would set everyone at ease.

"Well…shit," he said.


	4. Chapter 4

He had lied to her. And perhaps because of it, the Divine had died. Galyan had died. Hundreds of innocent people had died.

And he had the gall to stand there and look at her with a slightly apologetic, embarrassed look on his face, like he had done something as innocent as eat the last cookie.

Cassandra wanted nothing more than to punch that smarmy look off his face until he felt the same pain she was feeling right now.

"Varric!" she bellowed, advancing on him slowly, her hands twitching, itching to put them around his neck and just _squeeze_.

"Please tell me—" her voice was too loud, almost hysterical, and she struggled to get it back under control. Maybe—maybe there was an explanation for this other than the obvious.

"Please tell me this isn't what it looks like," she tried again, her voice quieter, but with the intensity of a bowstring about to snap. "Please tell me you didn't lie—not about this."

Varric edged closer to Hawke as Cassandra advanced on him, while Hawke's smirk slowly faded and she began to grasp that whatever this situation was, it wasn't the simple lovers' tryst she had thought.

Cassandra looked at Varric again, saw it on his face—though, she acknowledged bitterly, how could she trust anything she thought she saw there? She had thought she had known him, thought she had known he wasn't a liar—at least not about the big things, the things that mattered. She had _trusted_ him. More the fool her, then.

"Varric—the truth," she said, in a pained near-whisper this time. She couldn't look at him any longer, turning her back on him, walking over to the wall, and putting her hands on the cool stone to steady herself, nearly dazed by the combined mixture of regret, anger, sadness, and betrayal she was feeling.

"The truth," she said again, slightly louder, as still she heard nothing from behind her.

Finally—Varric's voice. apologetic but also…slightly petulant, as if she was being unreasonable. "All right, Seeker, I admit I lied to you, but it was just—"

Cassandra made an incoherent sound of pain, and the old rage bubbled up within her, the same rage that would cause Byron to pull her off her enemies in the middle of battle, the rage that she had struggled to master when she realized hate only begat hate.

She struck the unfeeling stone wall once with her fist, venting her rage, her _agony_, on herself.

_Her fault. Everything. Her fault._

If only she had gotten to Hawke in time, the massacre at the conclave might have been avoided. Certainly, Justinia had stepped up to the role intended for Hawke, but the days, weeks, months of delay—maybe Corypheus wouldn't have had his plan in place before then.

If she hadn't been so sure of her own abilities to read Varric-if she hadn't been such a damned fool!

She drew in great gulps of air as her vision darkened, and everything blurred. She rested her forehead against the cool stone, feeling the blood run down her hand, the pain in her knuckles, the only thing that seemed _real_ right now.

She felt a light pressure on the small of her back—his hand, and a voice murmuring from seemingly far away, "Seeker—Cassandra –please. Turn around. Look at me."

She _did_ turn around then, to look him in the eyes, eyes that shone with a mixture of apology, pain, and bewilderment.

"I'm sorry. I should've told you sooner. I just…didn't think it was a big deal. I thought you would understand. I was just protecting my friend."

"Protecting her? From what?" Cassandra shook her head. "Varric, you might not have liked me, but was I ever _violent_ toward you?"

"Not really, but—"

Exasperated, she said, "All we wanted Hawke for was to lead the Inquisition, to broker peace between the Templars and Mages. Who would better have credibility with both sides than an apostate mage who sided with the Templars at Kirkwall?"

He looked shocked. "Seeker, if that's the case, I _am_ sorry. I had no idea. I thought you were trying to hunt down Hawke to put her on trial."

She nodded at him, did her best to pull herself together. "There is nothing to apologize for, Varric. The fault and the guilt are mine alone to bear. You did as you thought best. I neglected my duty."

She saw Varric shake his head in confusion. "What are you talking about, Seeker?" he asked. "The only thing that changed is that Hawke wasn't there when Corypheus tried to blow everything up. I can see you being angry I lied to you—but really, it worked out to be one less person Corypheus got. And one more person who can help us right now," he said, gesturing to where Hawke had stood.

"Shit," Varric said, looking around. "She must've left. But—"

"Varric, you don't understand," she lashed out. "It was my job, my _duty_ to protect Justinia. Sheended up being the one who had to broker the peace between the mages and the templars. _After_ we had wasted several valuable months looking for Hawke. What if we had found Hawke sooner? Perhaps Corypheus—"

"Perhaps nothing!" he interrupted. "You'll drive yourself crazy that way, Seeker." He ran his hands through his hair wearily. "Trust me, I know. Don't start going down that road."

"I _believed_ you, Varric." She looked at him, beseechingly.

_Don't you see why that matters? _she thought. _Don't you see? I'm a Seeker. I'm supposed to find the truth, be able to tell the truth from lies. But in your case, I couldn't. I trusted you, let myself be carried away by your stories, thought I knew you, thought you respected me. And I let you fool me. I can't trust my own perceptions. Not with you. _

"Yeah, well…" he muttered, looking at the ground. "I guess that's my thing. I'm just the silly dwarf who tells the stories."

She glared at him. "Self-pity doesn't become you, Varric."

"And self-righteousness doesn't become you, but that hasn't stopped you before, Seeker!" he snapped. "As if you or Hawke could've single-handedly stopped Corypheus at the Conclave!"

"I blame myself for failing to honor my duty, and for believing a known liar. But I forget, Varric," she spat, her eyes raking him up and down, "honor and duty are things you know nothing about!"

It was a low blow, and a lie, and she knew it. One of the things that she had always admired about him was his willingness to do the right thing, his code of morality that demanded he stand up for others. She had seen him slipping food from his own pack for the refugees at the Crossroads, and when caught at it, pretending he just wasn't hungry. He championed Cole when she herself thought he was nothing but a demon. She knew he had volunteered to join the Inquisition, not for the fun of it, or the story, but because he believed he needed to help. Even lying about Hawke—he had done it out of his own sense of honor, a desire to protect his friend.

Hell, he even made himself sound like a lech in an attempt to save a certain inebriated woman from embarrassment.

Yes, it was a low blow. But she couldn't take it back now.

She saw the anger, but especially the hurt in his eyes, saw him take a step back as if she had hit him.

"I didn't realize you felt that way about me, Seeker."

_What are you trying to do? Make him hurt as much as you do?_

She bit her lip, trying to think of a way to apologize, but before she could, he spoke first.

"Let me see your hand," he said, quietly, his voice flat.

"It's fine," she lied. "Don't worry about it."

"Let me see your hand, damn it," he growled, louder.

She gave him her left hand. He held it, gently, inspecting it. The blood had stopped flowing from her split knuckles, but her hand was purple and swollen, and she had an odd, out of place lump under her first knuckle.

"Does that hurt?" he said, and probed it gently with his finger.

She was unable to control the hiss of pain that escaped her lips. "Hurts a bit now," she grimaced. "But it should be fine in the morning."

"Bullshit," he said, echoing the words she had spoken to him so long ago. "You've broken your hand. You don't do anything in half measures, do you, Seeker?"

"I've broken things before, Varric," she said, snatching her hand away. "I'll be fine."

"You will," he agreed. "Because if you don't see a healer tonight, I will personally tell Trevelyan tomorrow."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me," he said, his voice cold.

Neither of them said anything for a few moments, and the silence lingered uncomfortably for a time until Varric spoke.

"I'm going to the tavern tonight. Do you want to come with me? Have a few drinks?"

Bewildered at the abrupt change of subject, she stammered, "N—no, I think, not tonight."

He smiled his fake smile, his sarcastic smile, that Cassandra knew too well from his interrogation, but hadn't seen recently. Until now.

"That's a shame," he said. "We could have picked up where you left off the last time you were drunk."

Varric, his cheek still stinging, picked his way carefully through the slush in the courtyard to the entrance of Skyhold's Tavern.

The evening had already turned to night, making avoiding the deepest puddles in the dim moonlight a tricky affair. He thought he had finally gotten through the worst of it, but his very next step found him in a puddle up to his knees.

As if his day couldn't get any worse. And after it started off so well, too.

The Maker was definitely having a good laugh at his expense, Varric thought sourly. What was His plan? Dangle hope in front of him only to pull it away? Screw with the pathetic dwarf?

Although the Maker wasn't entirely to blame if Varric wanted to be honest about it. You could probably also throw in there his wounded pride and smart-ass mouth.

Damn it, but that woman brought out the worst in him. What had made him lash out like that? He had just been filled with an overwhelming, pissed-off desire to hurt her as much as she had hurt him. She thought he was no gentlemen? She thought honor was meaningless to him? Fine, he'd prove her right in the crassest way possible.

Fuck.

He didn't even really want to drink any more. He just wanted to go to his bed, curl up in a ball, and stare at the ceiling.

He stepped into the tavern, saw Hawke waiting for him at a table.

As he seated himself, she shoved a beer over at him and whistled when she saw his cheek.

"Lovely handprint. Commemorating it for later?"

"It's nothing. It means nothing. I don't want to talk about it," Varric said, shortly.

"Of course," said Hawke. "Always dreadfully embarrassing when you run into a lady's hand like that. Just minding your own business, when out of nowhere, a crazed woman slaps you for you no reason."

"Shut up," Varric said. "And, by the way, I wasn't going to mention it, but thanks for bailing on me."

"Yes, well," Hawke said, "I find it best not to get involved in lovers' quarrels. If nothing else, for the sake of my complexion. You can get away with it. If all else fails, you can grow a beard. You're halfway there anyway. Me, with my pale skin? A mark like that would linger _for days_."

"We're not lovers," Varric ground out between his teeth. "And she thinks I'm a miserable, vulgar, lying dwarf."

Hawke raised her eyebrows and grinned at him. "So she knows the real you, then, _and_ is still willing to spend time with you? Best hold onto her like grim death, Varric."

"I'm not in the mood for jokes about this, Hawke. Maybe later, but not now."

Hawke's smile faded. "I'm sorry, Varric. I didn't realize it was serious. Did you want to, you know, talk about it?"

"No, Hawke. Thanks, but no," Varric shook his head.

"Well, that's probably a good thing," Hawke said thoughtfully, "I don't give good advice. My solution to a problem is usually to ignore it for as long as possible. Then, when I absolutely have to deal with it, I either kill it or screw it. Now that I think about it, that's probably why Isabella and I get along so well."

"So how _is_ Isabella doing these days?" Varric asked, sipping at his beer, grateful for an opportunity to change the subject.

Hawke immediately warmed to the topic. "Well, funny you should ask…"

Varric sat back and listened to a convoluted tale of ribald pirates, cunning smugglers, Rivani seers, and corrupt chantry sisters.

A story that took his mind off a certain Seeker, who had started off the day as his friend, and now would undoubtedly never speak to him again.

And when he stared up at his ceiling that night, after a few too many beers, and a few too many tales, he admitted it hurt far, far more than he had thought it would.


	5. Chapter 5

The stench hit you first. It was unlike anything of which one could have conceived. It was disgusting, like the acrid smell of burning hair. It was cloyingly sweet, like the incense she remembered too well from her childhood. And, underneath it all, there was the vague, _ordinary_ smell of meat cooking over the fire—which somehow, was the most obscene thing of all.

She allowed her horse to pick its way forward, trying to control her urge to retch. The smell and the smoke was in her nose, her eyes, her hair, her lungs, her clothes—so that even the frequent gusts of icy wind brought no relief from it.

She searched the ground in vain for any sign of life. There were not even any wounded. Just ashes, and charred bodies, some frozen in a memento of their agonizing pain before the Maker had blessedly taken their life.

Her stomach had finally abandoned her efforts to control it, and she paused, emptying its contents over the side of her horse, over and over again, staring down at the ground, which was somehow easier than looking up and seeing all the death.

_Coward_.

At first, she had thought all she heard was the howling of the wind, but then, after the wind died down, the sound remained when the wind did not. It was a high-pitched wail-a human cry.

She raised her eyes and saw, in the distance, standing up-a child.

She urged her horse forward and began to pray.

The mages, some of them, had brought children with them. When the circles had dissolved, the children came too, with some of the rebels. When she had objected to their presence at the Conclave, Justinia had reminded her that many of them had nowhere else to go. The children were quartered on the outside of the camp, away from the Temple, and perhaps Andraste, in her mercy, had seen fit to intercede with the Maker for the lives of some of the innocents.

As she got closer, she saw a little blonde girl, maybe eight or nine, dressed in a white nightgown, clutching on to a rag doll, crying—probably deathly cold and frightened.

As she reined up beside the girl and dismounted, the girl seemed not to notice her.

"Shhh…shhh..it's okay. Don't cry," she murmured as she bent down to draw her in a hug, feeling the freezing limbs underneath the thin gown. "Let's get you warm," she said, fumbling in her saddlebags for a blanket and drawing it out, placing it around the thin shoulders that were still shaking from weeping.

"We'll get you out of here soon," Cassandra said, her heart full of sympathy. "How would you feel about riding a horse with me? She's very gentle, and she'll take good care of us."

There was no response, though, and Cassandra began to fear the girl was in shock, or worse. "What's your name, little one?" she asked, and placed two fingers gently under the girl's chin to see her face, smiling gently.

Only to scrabble back in horror. Underneath the blond hair were two black eyes, full of maggots that danced their way across the unblinking, sightless voids, and a burned, blackened, charred face, with only two holes for a nose and a thin mouth drawn up into an unholy grimace.

"Why, Cassandra?" the slight, lisping, child's voice asked. "Why did you kill us? Why didn't you try to save us?" she asked.

"Why, Seeker?" a deep baritone asked, from behind the child. A templar in bright silver armor got up off the ground, and retrieved his sword and shield from where he dropped it. "I did what I was told. I followed every order I was given. How have I displeased the Seekers? Why didn't you save me?" he asked, removing his helmet to reveal a face that looked more like candle wax, the flesh dripping and melting down his face as he spoke to her.

"No," she whispered. "I tried, I'm sorry. Please—"

"Why?" came another voice from behind her, then another, then another.

As she whirled around, she saw them. Saw them all. Justinia, looking disappointed with her, with her failure; Galyan, his beautiful green eyes, his hand reaching out for her; and the others, all the others, gathering behind them—mages, templars, chantry, maids, cooks, men, women, children, old men, but the same question.

"Why?" she heard them all ask, some upset, some angry, some resigned, but the question was the same—why—why—why—until that was all she could hear, until she was screaming and crying, and she tried telling them, tried saying to them, that she was sorry but it never seemed to matter, they just kept coming, and coming—

And then, thank the Maker, she woke up. Her body was bathed in cold sweat, and tears were running down her cheeks.

She was stunned for a moment, in two places at once, being chased by the dead, and in her room above the forge.

And she blinked, and cleared her vision of the last vestiges of her dream, and wiped the tears from her eyes—cleared herself of everything except for the guilt, which she knew she would never be rid of.

If only she had pressed Varric harder, if only she had gotten him to understand…if only she hadn't believed him. The apparitions in her dream were right...she was at least partially responsible for all the deaths.

_My fault, Maker forgive me._

Cassandra tried to close her eyes again, before she quickly realized it was folly. She would never be able to get back to sleep, was afraid to, and it was too early to start her day. She had always been haunted by her dreams, but this…this was something else entirely.

She got up, lit a candle, and searched her bookshelf for a distraction.

Hawke and Varric sat companionably in chairs by the fire on Skyhold's main floor the next morning.

"Do you remember the look on his face, Varric?"

"Well, if they're not dead, watch out for a bunch of boneless women flopping about!"

The both laughed until they cried.

"You're still the funniest fucking asshole I've ever met," Varric said, wiping his eyes. "By the Maker, I've missed you."

"I've missed you too, Varric," Hawke said softly, sadly.

He wanted to tell her that the way he felt went beyond _missing_, that he would still think of stories and jokes and turn to tell them to her only to realize she was gone. He wanted to tell her that he would treasure every minute of their being together again. He wanted to tell her that she was the best damn friend he'd ever have.

But all of that was too raw, too charged, to be a topic for morning conversation in the Great Hall. Varric changed the subject. "You and the Inquisitor figure out where we're going next?" Varric asked.

Hawke brightened. "We're meeting a Grey Warden contact of mine in a place called Crestwood. The good news is that it's not too far away."

"And the bad news?" Varric asked.

"It's rainy, dark, and chock-full of demons and undead."

"Demons and undead?" Varric deadpanned. "Hawke, my favorites. You shouldn't have."

"Only the best—"

"Varric?" an excited voice asked, directly behind Varric and Hawke.

Varric jumped. "Shit, Inquisitor. Don't sneak up behind me, ok?"

"I'm sorry, Varric," Trevelyan said, apologetically. "But you will never guess what I found out. Never."

Varric sighed. "And I guess you want me to make silly wild-ass guesses until you finally deign to tell me?"

"Yes!" Trevelyan nodded, before the look he saw on Varric's face apparently changed his mind. "I mean, no. No, definitely not. That would be," he cleared his throat, "a waste of time."

"At any rate, listen. Cassandra…" and the Inquisitor paused for effect, "_loves_ your books. Specifically, _Swords and Shields_."

"_Swords and Shields_? Isn't that your smutty little romance serial?" Hawke snickered. "Which, for the record, Isabella and I loved," Hawke quickly continued, seeing the pained look on Varric's face. "But it wasn't really like your usual stuff."

"I wrote _Swords and Shields_ when I needed a little extra coin. Wasn't exactly the best thing I've ever written," Varric admitted. "And you're telling me Cassandra, of all people, loves it? How did you…" Varric was about to ask more questions, but realized quickly he didn't want to know. "Never mind."

"Cassandra?" Hawke exclaimed. "Wasn't that the woman from last night? The one who…you know." Hawke pointed to Varric's cheek, quirking an eyebrow.

"You're not helping, Hawke," Varric said.

"At any rate," Trevelyan said, "You need to write the next chapter for her, Varric."

"What?" Varric exclaimed. "No, actually, I don't, Inquisitor. It was a terrible book. Terrible. And besides, the Seeker and I aren't on the best terms right now."

"And that might be an understatement," interjected Hawke.

"Look, I don't know exactly what went on between you two, but could you maybe…consider it a peace offering?" Trevelyan asked.

"I don't think—" Varric started.

"_The dead in the dark, beckoning, blaming. Trembling fingers turn the pages, trying to forget_."

Cole's voice this time, from behind them, making them all jump.

"Shit, kid," Varric said, shaking his head. Was everyone in the damn castle conspiring to give him a heart attack and to get him to write more _Swords and Shields_?

He certainly didn't want to. But…_trembling fingers turn the pages, trying to forget_…he got an image in his head of the Seeker, unable to sleep, haunted, blaming herself.

_Your fault_, _Tethras,_ his mind reminded him.

He supposed if it might help, he couldn't refuse. For her.

"All right," Varric said. "I'll do it."

"Thank you, Varric." Trevelyan said. "You won't regret this."

Cole nodded.

"If I don't regret it, it'll be the first thing in a while," Varric muttered to himself.

_Shit, Seeker, I'm sorry._

He knew from long practice that sorry rarely helped, but…he'd do what he could.


	6. Chapter 6

Varric massaged his forehead, feeling the beginnings of a raging headache. How on earth was he going to get the guard-captain out of prison?

He was starting to remember why he never finished _Swords and Shields_ in the first place, and why he swore he was never,ever writing a serial like this again. His publishers had insisted he end each installment with a cliffhanger, to get people interested in reading the next one. Which was fine, in theory. The problem was always getting the hero _out_ of that situation the next time he sat down to write.

And this time, Varric had to admit, the problem was even harder. He'd never writtenfor someone before. He would always just try to make a good story, or, if all else failed, please himself. But this time, he found himself considering what _she_ would want.

Would the Seeker want the guard-captain to break herself out of prison through her own cleverness, or would she rather the hero save her? Would she prefer the guard-captain to be cleared of all charges and return to her post, or to live life outside the law, a champion for outcasts, the poor, and the mistreated?

He really had no idea.

But even more importantly, now that he looked critically at the story, Varric found his hero was not quite up to snuff. Sure, he was handsome, and good, and wise, but he was _boring. _Wouldn't the guard-captain really prefer someone else? Someone who wasn't so utterly conventional? Maybe…someone with a sense of humor?

And…even if he could get all those questions solved, would writing the damn thing even do any good? His stories were trite things. Time wasters, mostly. How could they come close to touching her heart, helping her heal, even a little bit?

And how was he even going to get the story to her? She had made it very clear the last time they had spoken that she wanted nothing further to do with him. She had sought him out the day after the…incident…to put it euphemistically, as forthright, honest, and self-recriminating as usual.

"Varric," she had announced, striding up to where he sat alone at a table, as if she were bearding a dragon in his lair, and best done was soonest done, "I would apologize to you for my actions of yesterday, if I thought my actions were in any way forgivable. My loss of temper was inexcusable and wrong, and I can only hope to make up for my actions by ensuring it never happens again. I'll keep my distance, and you have my word I will not trouble you in any way in the future."

Her jaw worked as if she were about to say more, but she had thought better of it, and nodded at him instead. "Excuse me for bothering you at your work, Varric," she said, by way of good-bye, before turning on her heel and exiting the hall. He had called to her, once, and she had stiffened, and her gait slowed for a moment, but then she had continued on a half-second later, as if she hadn't heard him.

He had seen her at a distance a few times in the days since then. She had had dark circles under her eyes, but appeared to be pushing herself harder than ever. She was constantly a frenzy of activity, whether training by herself, helping Cullen with the new recruits, or sparring with the other companions. He never saw her but she was in motion, going somewhere, doing something.

He spent most of his free time with Hawke, and he knew she noticed his constant, veiled, appraisals of the Seeker, but thankfully, Hawke kept her peace.

She had ventured, once, innocuously, "Worry about her, do you?"

But when Varric had only grunted and shrugged his shoulders, Hawke had let the subject drop.

But now…Varric massaged his forehead once again. They were leaving for Crestwood tomorrow, he had gotten no more done on _Swords and Shields_, and the Seeker was starting to look veritably gaunt.

After more minutes of staring at a blank piece of paper and getting nothing done, Varric finally threw his quill down. He might as well try to get some sleep if nothing else.

Varric had held out hope Hawke was kidding about Crestwood. Or exaggerating, at the least.

She wasn't.

Despite battling what Varric was convinced were half the demons in the Fade, he was rapidly beginning to think the worst part of Crestwood was the rain.

His boots squelched every time he took a step, and he could feel the water oozing between his toes. He could tell everything in his pack had long since gotten wet, despite the presence of his waterproof, so he couldn't even look forward to making camp. All stopping for the evening would mean was a long, cold night, spent shivering under a wet blanket.

And, to add insult to injury, the Seeker kept clicking off miles with her tireless stride. He had to take two steps to every one of hers to keep pace. He was wet, weary beyond mere tiredness, and cold to the bone.

"So," he said in an undertone to Hawke, after waiting for Trevelyan and the Seeker to pull ahead, "we're good friends, right?"

"Of course," she said, looking at him, curiously.

"Is there any chance, any chance at all, that you could kill me now, and put me out of my misery?"

"No!" There was a long pause. "If for no other reason than if I have to suffer, you do too."

"Please, Hawke?" he begged. " I'd do it for you."

"Well…" she considered. There was a long silence, broken by nothing but the steady fall of the rain, and the squish of their boots through the mud. Finally, she said, "Ok. If it means that much to you. But…"

"There's always a but!" he groaned.

"But only if you kill me first." She grinned.

"Nice try." He smiled and shook his head.

There were both silent for a few moments as they lengthened their stride to keep within sight of their front two party members.

"So…" Hawke gestured after awhile, "she's _the_ Cassandra Pentaghast, huh?

"The Hero of Orlais? Right-hand of the Divine?" Varric supplied.

"Yeah, that one," Hawke agreed. "She's kind of…exactly what I expected."

"Which is?"

"Like Aveline, except without being likable or having any redeeming qualities whatsoever."

"She's not _that_ bad," Varric said, uncomfortably. "I mean, I thought she was after she interrogated me—"

"That was her?" Hawke interjected. "You did tell me a Seeker interrogated you, but you never said the name. I guess it makes sense, though, when I think about it. I mean, there aren't very many Seekers any more, at least ones loyal to the Chantry."

Hawke paused. "At any rate, I'm surprised you're not even more angry at her than what you are, after what she put you through."

"Well," Varric admitted, "Some of that, I mean…maybe a bit, may have been my fault. It would have been a little easier if I had told the truth. And I _was_ being kind of a wise-ass during the whole thing."

"Even so," Hawke continued determinedly, "she still owes you an apology. I mean, I kept my mouth shut when I thought you might have had a…thing…together. But the way she treats you! I swear to the Maker, right now, if she refuses to look at you one more time when she talks to you, I'm launching a fireball at her, mystical Seeker powers or no."

Coming from someone else, that would have been an idle threat. Coming from Hawke….well, it still might be. But Hawke was just a little bit crazy. And overprotective. And scared of nothing. This was the woman who dueled the Arishok, single-handedly, and won. If anyone was capable of throwing, or at least attempting to throw, a fireball at Cassandra to get a little attention, it was Hawke. And that…was not going to end well.

"Don't do that!" Varric said quickly. "The whole thing is my fault. I may have said she was…that is…" Varric searched for the correct words.

"What? You may have implied what? I can't imagine whatever you implied is justification for acting like…like…" Hawke's hands fluttered as she searched for a word, before evidently giving up. "Acting like _that_."

"I may have implied that she was… a cheap, easy, drunk," the words tumbled too quickly from his mouth.

Hawke snorted, then choked. To his ear, it sounded like a badly suppressed laugh.

The distinctly uncomfortable sensation of being outmaneuvered began to penetrate Varric's weary consciousness.

"At any rate," Hawke continued, undeterred. "I'm sure you had a good reason. And even after everything she's done, you promised the Inquisitor you'd write a chapter of _Swords and Shields_ for her! Why on earth—"

"You're overplaying your hand, Hawke," Varric interrupted.

"Caught on, did you?" Hawke said, looking pleased with herself. "Well, I can't say I'm sorry. That's more information than I've gotten out of you all week.

"You're a sneaky little bastard, Hawke, I'll give you that," Varric conceded.

To be honest, he wasn't angry, or even irritated. He'd have seen through her in a second if he hadn't been so damn tired.

"Now that you've heard all that, I trust your curiosity is satisfied?" Varric inquired.

"Satisfied? No. More like piqued. No, stronger than piqued. What's stronger than piqued? You're the writer."

Sidestepping the question, Varric said, "I don't know why you're so interested in the fact that I insulted someone. I insult people all the time. Hell, I just insulted you."

"Oh, that," she said, waving it away. "That was nothing. I know you didn't mean it."

"I most certainly did. You _are_ a sneaky little bastard."

"The point _is_," she said, "you care about her. And not just care, but, you know, _care_."

"And you came to this conclusion from the fact that I insulted her?" Varric asked, incredulously.

"Yes."

Before Varric could inquire any further, Hawke pointed at the two figures ahead of them, retreating into the distance. "We'd better catch up."

Varric swore. He'd had about enough of Crestwood.

The evening had been better than Varric expected. They had reached the cave where Loghain had hidden out around dusk, and the Inquisitor had judged things safe enough to build a fire and make camp.

While Hawke, Loghain, and the Inquisitor spoke, Varric busied himself with collecting the driest firewood he could find—which wasn't very dry-while Cassandra rooted through their meager supplies to find something to make for dinner.

Finally, when he had gathered all the firewood he could, and judged he had a good pile, he looked at Cassandra and said, "Probably going to have to get Hawke to come in here and light this. Some of this wood is too damp without mage fire to get it going."

"That's fine," Cassandra said, addressing a point some two feet over his head. She looked over at where the three people were standing, making plans. "It looks like they may be wrapping up soon."

Varric studied her. Although she had been going all day, tirelessly, and her fighting prowess remained as deadly as ever, she looked horrible. Her eyes were bloodshot, she had deep circles under her eyes, and unless, he missed his guess, she had lost about five pounds that, quite frankly, she didn't have to lose.

"Seeker, are you ok?" he asked impulsively, before he could regret asking the question.

"What would make you think I am not?" she asked, coldly, finally looking at him.

"No reason," he muttered, losing his nerve.

"I suggest you take some time to attend to your own fitness before worrying about mine. I noticed you and Hawke lagging several times, and my pace was not particularly arduous. Had I been trying to make good time, I could have gone much faster."

_There, _he thought._ That'll teach me for trying to care._

"My apologies for slowing you down, Seeker. I hope I didn't prove _too_ much of an inconvenience," he said, not even trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"You were no more of an inconvenience than I expected, Varric," she replied.

Before he could think of an appropriate retort, Trevelyan and Hawke, their conversation with Loghain obviously concluded, came sauntering up.

"Well," the Inquisitor said, rubbing his hand together, "We've gotten the information we needed, thanks to Loghain. But before we go over that, I think a fire and some food are the first order of business. Champion," he asked, nodding at Hawke, "Will you do the honors?"

Varric woke up when the Inquisitor shook him. Varric had drawn midnight watch, the worst one. Far better to draw the first watch or the last, so you could get a good chunk of uninterrupted sleep, but that seemed to be how this trip was going.

"Nothing's moving out there," the Inquisitor whispered. "Should be a quiet watch."

Varric got up and jammed his toes into boots that were merely damp now, instead of squishing with every step, and put on a shirt that had dried to cold and clammy from soaking wet. He grabbed Bianca and went to sit at the mouth of the cave.

It was times like these that Varric seriously wondered why he had joined the Inquisition. At least in Kirkwall, he had gotten to sleep in a bed every night.

As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, and Varric scanned the landscape, he realized Trevelyan was right. There wasn't much out there. Of course, far off in the distance, he could see a green rift that they hadn't closed yet, but it was miles away—too far to be a threat.

The rain did cover up any noises, though, so he'd have to remain alert. His eyes were the only senses he could depend on. He constantly scanned the outside, making up different patterns so he wouldn't get bored. First he'd scan left to right, then up and down, then start close, then move far away. But when these tricks ceased to work, and the patter of the rain began to sound soothing, he felt his eyes start to grow heavy and he caught himself nodding.

Cold rain should keep him awake, he thought grimly. He rose to his feet, and walked around outside for about ten minutes, until he thought he was wet enough, and cold enough, to stay up for the rest of his watch.

He settled back down in the mouth of the cave, wringing the water out of his hair, shirt, and pants, and started scanning again.

_Left_. _Right_. _Up_. _Down_.

He heard a noise from behind him, and instantly jerked into full alertness. He grabbed his crossbow and rose to his feet, waiting in silence for the noise to repeat itself. He strained his eyes against the dimness of the cave, illuminated by the remaining faint glow of the fire.

He heard it again, and relaxed slightly. Whatever it was, it sounded low, and maybe...squeaky? Definitely an animal. Nug, perhaps?

He walked steadily in the direction he had heard the noise from, trying to pinpoint the sound. When he heard it again, his heart fell. He knew exactly what it was now.

He took a few more steps to where the Seeker's blankets were, and stared down at her. In the dim, remaining firelight, he could see the tears coursing down her cheeks; the soft sounds were from her ragged breathing. Her eyes were closed, but she was restless, twitching in her sleep.

Varric was at a loss. Did he wake her up? Walk away and hope it got better? Especially when all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around her and tell her it was going to be ok?

That last one was out, not the least because she made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him.

He sat down, cross-legged, next to her. He gently took her hand, where it lay on top of her blanket, and encircled it with his. "Shhh…" he whispered, close to her ear, feeling slightly ridiculous as he did so, but not knowing what else to do. "It's ok. I'm here. Shhh."

He observed her face closely, as he sat with her, squeezing her hand, ready to wake her up if it got any worse. Instead, after a few minutes, he saw her relax. _Thank the Maker_, he thought.

He used his other hand to dry her tears away, wiping them from her face, where they had puddled under her eyes, where they had run down into her hair. He found himself absently tracing the scar on her left cheek, a harsh pink mark that puckered and pulled her skin, neatly following the line of her cheekbone. _Beautiful._

When he realized what he was doing, he quickly pulled his hand away. He sat with her for a few more minutes, her hand in his, assuring himself that she was all right.

Once he heard her breathing return to normal, he quietly drew his hand away and stood up, returning to his post at the mouth of the cave. It was almost time for him to wake her up to take the next watch, but he figured if he had already done two hours, he could do two more. She needed the sleep more than he did right now. He'd deal with the consequences in the morning.


	7. Chapter 7

"Now," Cassandra pitched her voice to be heard over the noise around her on the practice fields, as she addressed the twenty recruits, "the idea of the combat roll is that if you have to go down, you want to immediately be able to get back up again, ready to fight. If you're on your back, chances are, you're dead, or about to be. Obviously, we want to prevent that. We'll start without weapons, at first. Put them down."

She didn't bother repressing her sigh and look of irritation as twenty swords and twenty bucklers went clanging to the ground in a perfect cacophony of sound that intensified her pre-existing headache. She supposed it would've been too much to ask for them to gently place their weapons on the ground, being respectful of the equipment they had been issued.

It had been _years _since she had worked with raw recruits. When Cullen had asked her to help teach some of the men and women that came flooding in to Skyhold after the events of Haven, she had been happy—eager, even—to agree. The more work she had, the less time she had to think, which suited her perfectly.

She wondered, though, if she would have been quite as eager to volunteer had she remembered what it was like. She hated to admit it, but she was used to the instinctive respect, and even fear, the Seekers engendered in the Templars, used to the awe with which name of Cassandra Pentaghast was whispered as the Hero of Orlais. She didn't like trading on her reputation, exactly. But she had forgotten what it was like not to have it.

When she had introduced herself to these Fereldans, all of whom looked unbelievably young to her, she had seen no stir of recognition, no sign of respect. She was just another instructor, and they were a cocky bunch of adolescents away from their homes for the first time. She supposed that the assassination attempt on Divine Beatrix had taken place twenty years ago—longer than most of them had been alive. She wondered if she looked as old to them as they looked young to her.

She was about to continue her lecture, when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught one of the recruits—the one she had already targeted as a troublemaker—grinning and whispering to another one.

"Montfort!" She bellowed. "Since you're talking through my instruction, you must know how to do this already. Go ahead and pick up your sword and shield and demonstrate for us."

"No, ma'am. Sorry ma'am," the cocky redhead said, his words polite, but with an insolent smirk on his face.

She sighed again, and continued, "The idea is not to land on your shoulder, but your back, in a rolling motion. You land on your shoulder, you're not going anywhere, and there's a good chance you're going to hurt yourself. Throw your lead arm diagonally across your body as you go forward and tuck into your roll. Watch as I demonstrate."

After she performed the maneuver, she said, "See how the whole motion took me less than a second to complete? And I'm up, on the balls of my feet, ready to fight again in the proper stance. You'll primarily be using it when you overbalance, or an enemy's blow knocks you down. There are more advanced applications, such as rolling under an enemy's—"

"—wouldn't mind _her_ rolling under _me_," she heard in an undertone, followed by the sniggers of those who heard his insult.

Silence quickly fell as she looked up. She knew who it was by the sound of his voice.

"Montfort," she said, quietly, infuriated, and barely under control. "Do you have something you wish to say to me?"

Even the recruit had enough sense not to repeat his comment to the angry Nevarran. "I just—" he gulped audibly, "I just don't understand why we're wasting time learning about this rolling stuff. We should be learning how to use our shields and swords. Learning how to fight like warriors."

There were a few murmurs of assent.

"You want to learn more about fighting? Fine. Go get your sword and shield, recruit, and come back here."

Montfort looked at her, but didn't move. She smiled, coldly. "Or don't. But either way, the lesson starts regardless. If I were you, I'd pick them up."

After he hastily retrieved them and came trotting up, Cassandra said, bringing her own weapons and shield up, "Go ahead, recruit. Attack me."

She easily side-stepped his first fumbling hack with his sword. "Is that the best you can do? Attack! Attack like you mean it!"

For the first ten minutes of the fight, she declined to use her sword and shield at all, side-stepping, dodging and rolling out of the way.

She saw the sweat pouring down Montfort's face as he came at her, heard his labored intake of breaths.

"Not fair," he puffed. "Always dodging out of the way."

"Not fair, is it?" marveling at the hard-headedness of the Fereldan. "Very well, I'll attack."

So saying, she brought her sword down hard on his shield. Again. And again. She aimed for his shield every time, having no intention of hurting him, but merely humiliating him. She kept up her blistering attack, leaving him little room for doing anything besides bringing his shield up to defend himself. She saw the wood chips from the polished shield start to fly up with each attack as she hacked it to pieces, saw him start to flag, become slower and slower in returning to guard.

"Montfort! Are you tired already? Your enemies will cut you to pieces! Get that shield up! Get it up!" she yelled.

She finally desisted after another few minutes, after she heard the recruit gasping for air, saw his red hair plastered to his head, sweat running down his face and into his eyes.

"Enough!" she said, finally, barely breathing hard.

She saw Montfort nearly collapse, dropping his weapons and putting his hands on his knees.

"How long were we fighting?" she said, pointing at a different recruit, a soft-spoken one with brown hair and a respectful attitude.

"Uh…twenty minutes? Maybe thirty?"

"How long do you think a battle lasts?" she asked.

The recruits looked at each other, but no one offered an answer.

"Sometimes all morning. Sometimes all day. If all you learn how to do is hack with your sword and defend with your shield, you will get exhausted and be dead before the first hour is up."

She raised her voice. "And as you sit there, in the hot sun, trying to stuff your intestines back into your stomach and crying for your mothers, you'll _wish_ you had paid attention to me."

There was dead silence as all the recruits looked at her.

"Does anyone else have any objection to today's lesson? Any objection at all?" She looked into nineteen pairs of wide eyes. "Then get started. Move!"

"And Montfort!" she said, hearing a familiar, unpleasant noise, "if you _dare_ to get sick on my field, you're cleaning it up with your tunic!"

"Very impressive," came the amused, lilting voice from behind her.

Cassandra controlled her desire to jump. Barely.

"Leliana, she said, turning, "a pleasant surprise." Cassandra honestly wasn't sure if it was pleasant or not, but forced a semblance of a smile on her face. "How may I be of assistance to the Inquisition's Spymaster?"

"Can you see me at your convenience, Cassandra? After you are done here, of course," she said, motioning to the recruits.

"As you wish," she acquiesced, wincing internally. Whatever Leliana wanted to talk to her about, she doubted it was good news. "Midday, perhaps?"

"I will see you then. In the rookery," Leliana agreed. "In the meantime…I will let you get back to work."

Cassandra strode into Leliana's office some minutes after noon, in her dirt-stained tunic, the muscles in her back aching, and, despite her best efforts to wash up, sweat re-beading on her forehead from the climb to the third story.

"I am sorry I am late," she said, noting with a flash of annoyance that the Spymaster appeared as calm and cool as ever. Not that she begrudged Leliana her appearance, of course, but it was always mildly discomfiting dealing with someone whose face and appearance only revealed what she wanted to show. Especially when Cassandra knew thather own emotions—or at least her negative ones—often chased each other across her face, as swiftly as the clouds chased each other overhead, despite her best efforts to the contrary.

Leliana looked up from her desk and motioned for Cassandra to be seated with an easy smile. "Everyone has already gone for lunch, so we have the office to ourselves. Would you like me to send for something for us?"

"No thank you," Cassandra said. "I'm not hungry."

Leliana nodded, as if this were the answer she expected. "And don't worry about being late—no doubt you were having…fun," and here she smiled, "with your recruits."

"Fun?" Cassandra retorted, drily. "If you call 'fun' having to beat a bunch of adolescents into submission before they'll even listen to you, _while_ you're trying to teach them valuable skills that will save their lives 'fun' then, yes, I suppose I was having an excellent time. I highly recommend it next time you are looking to get a migraine."

"I'll keep that in mind," Leliana said, pursing her lips, but whether that was to suppress a laugh, because she was deep in thought, or for some other reason, Cassandra had no idea. She waited for Leliana to speak.

"I don't know precisely how to bring this up, Cassandra," Leliana began. There was a long pause. "But I had heard that you and the Inquisitor were leaving for the Western Approach in a few days?"

"Yes," Cassandra nodded. Surely, Leliana knew that already, and didn't need to ask her.

Leliana reached under her desk and retrieved a small woven satchel, and passed it across to Cassandra. "Vivienne helped me—that is, she has contacts—at any rate, it's quite difficult to get at this time of the year in Skyhold."

Leliana stopped and looked at Cassandra, as if waiting for her to say something. Cassandra, though, was completely at a loss. Was there a message she was supposed to have received, but hadn't? Was the Inquisitor supposed to have talked to her about something?

Finally, Leliana continued, "You might want to start today. I'm told it usually takes twenty-four hours, but sometimes a bit longer."

Cassandra began to feel that, although she was ostensibly taking part in this conversation, whatever was actually being said or implied was escaping her entirely. In hope of illuminating the situation, she grabbed the bag and looked into it, and found it to contain…herbs? She was no expert, but it looked like witherstalk, and…something else? Something she couldn't identify.

Leliana took a deep breath as Cassandra stared blankly at her. "Take it as a tea every two hours, until you start to bleed, and then…that should be it."

_Oh holy Andraste, she thinks… _

Cassandra felt her face slowly suffuse with color as the realization dawned on her.

Leliana, entirely misunderstanding the reason for her embarrassment, got up from her desk, and came around to place a sympathetic hand on Cassandra's shoulder. "It happens," she shrugged. "I know we're not the best of friends, but we've worked together…how long? Six years? Trust me a little. Let me know if you need anything else, yes?"

Cassandra finally regained enough control of the situation, and her senses, to place the bag back on the table and stammer out an answer. "No, Leliana. Just…no." She shook her head.

"You want to keep it?" Leliana asked, looking genuinely surprised. "Well, I suppose—"

"_No!"_Cassandra said, too loudly. "I mean—" she choked, then gathered herself , "I don't know where you got the—I'm not pregnant, Leliana!" Cassandra hadn't realized her face could get any redder than it had, but she felt herself blush even more with her last sentence.

"Are you—of course you're sure," the spymaster muttered to herself, answering the question she was about to ask. She walked back around to her chair, and sat down, looking down at her desk for a moment.

When she finally looked up, her cheeks were slightly pink with embarrassment, which from Leliana was an extreme display of emotion. "I'm sorry, Cassandra. It all made too much sense. Please believe me, my intentions were good. It just seemed so…well, at any rate, I'm sorry."

Cassandra sat, still feeling slightly dazed at the direction of the conversation. It all held the slightest tinge of unreality, like if she just shook her head, and cleared out the cobwebs, the last five minutes would have turned out never to have happened, and Leliana would have been briefing her on the latest intelligence from her scouts on the Western Approach, or talking about suspected spies in the latest batch or recruits, or even, Maker forbid, shoes, but anything else other than what happened.

And suddenly her mind recalled Leliana at breakfast—_he gets up sooner than you'd think—_her lips quirking upward as she—

"Cassandra, if you don't mind me asking," Leliana said, interrupting her chain of thought, "what_ is_ going on then? Not that it's any of my business, of course," she said swiftly. "Forget I asked."

"What's going on with what, Leliana?" Cassandra said, slightly against her better judgment, but the conversation thus far had fostered a sense of intimacy, false or not.

Leliana looked at her, ticking things off on her fingers. "The not eating, the losing weight, Varric constantly looking after you, and…" Leliana paused slightly, "don't be offended, but you're moodier than ever."

"And I heard about Crestwood. The Inquisitor told me he nearly had to pull you off of Varric after you found out he took your watch shift—which, why he would do that to begin with, and why you would scream at him to, and I quote, 'leave me the fuck alone and stop worrying about me'….well, it certainly does raise the question, does it not? And that's not even getting into the other things, like how you and Varric were fine for a few weeks, and then, all of a sudden—"

"All right, Leliana! I think you've made your point," Cassandra interrupted. "It's just about Hawke…and Justinia. I'll take care of it. I didn't realize everyone had noticed. I'll…tighten things up."

"Hawke and Justinia?" Leliana asked, confused. "What does that have to do with Varric?"

Cassandra sighed. She supposed she owed Leliana an explanation. It was true, she and Leliana had never been the best of friends, but the fact that Leliana had reached out—even erroneously—for seemingly the mere purpose of helping her…well, it made her feel slightly indebted to the spymaster, despite her embarrassment.

"I found out that Varric had lied to me about knowing where Hawke was," Cassandra stated, by way of explanation.

"As did we all, when Varric brought Hawke here," Leliana responded. "I can see how you would feel aggrieved by that, but—"

"But nothing," Cassandra retorted. "If I had convinced Varric to give me Hawke's location, it's entirely possible Justinia isn't at the Conclave. That Corypheus doesn't have time to develop his plans. That none of this," she spread her hands, "none of this would have happened."

Leliana stared at her in disbelief. "Cassandra—I was there, remember? It doesn't matter what you would have said. He didn't trust—not you, exactly—but didn't trust the Chantry. There was _nothing_ you could have said to him."

"It was my fault. I should have made him understand. The Maker placed me in a position where I could have affected what happened next. My failure led to the death of Justinia and everyone at the Conclave!" Cassandra said, agonized. "My fault, Leliana! Varric might have lied, but it was my fault for not convincing him of the importance of telling him the truth!"

"Were you prepared to torture him?" Leliana asked, evenly. "Torture Varric?"

"What do you mean?" Cassandra's eyes were shadowed in pain.

"He wouldn't have said anything to you. Not then, not ever. The only way you were going to pry that information out of him was torture. Were you willing to do that?"

There was silence between the two women.

Leliana continued, pressing, "We worked together, remember? I was there when you tortured that blood mage. Do you remember that?"

Cassandra shuddered. She remembered. She remembered his screams as she set the lyrium in his blood aflame, making him feel as though he was burning from the inside out, but never feeling the blessed release that real burning would make you feel. Just interminable agony, while he screamed, and screamed, and screamed. _It was to find the children, the elven children, that he had stolen_-her mind reminded her. But even with the excuse, she still remembered. Still shuddered at the remembering.

"No. No I couldn't have. Not even for what happened later—"

"But let's say you could, Cassandra. Let's say you tortured Varric and found Hawke. Would Hawke have agreed to lead the Inquisition under those circumstances?"

_No. _The answer came to her with clarity.

"Cassandra, I loved Justinia. I don't know why the Maker saw fit to do what he did. To her, and everyone else there. But it isn't your fault, any more than it is mine, or Varric's, or anyone else's. Do you understand?"

Cassandra bit her lip, averted her gaze. "I still see them, Leliana. Still see them every time I shut my eyes."

"So do I," Leliana said softly. "That's enough to bear. Don't add blame on top of it."

Cassandra cleared her throat, near tears. "I—thank you."

Leliana nodded, business-like once again. "If I don't see you again, before you leave, good luck with your mission to find the Wardens. But…" and her mask slipped, slightly, "I meant what I said earlier. If you need anything—at all—let me know."

"Thank you," Cassandra nodded back, and got up to leave. Leliana had give her much to think about.


	8. Chapter 8

Cassandra had done the rarest of things after speaking with Leliana—taking a half day off. She had talked to Cullen, and begged indisposition for the afternoon's training. He had given her an odd look, but found a replacement with no inconvenient questions.

She needed just this one afternoon with no training. Just thinking. She lay on the pallet in her room, her arm over her eyes, the measured strikes of the blacksmiths' hammers providing a counterpoint to the silence she sought in her soul.

Was there, as Leliana had said , nothing she could've done to prevent the deaths at the Conclave? Or was that a convenient fiction she had seized upon, when Leliana offered it, to absolve herself of blame and guilt?

Why had she not prayed on it? Why was it that when she needed the Maker's guidance the most, she had turned her back on it? Though perhaps that was not the right word. She hadn't turned her back on it, so much as been full of shame—and yes, even afraid. Afraid of being judged and found wanting, but also perhaps even more afraid of being forgiven—forgiven when she was still struggling to forgive herself.

She struggled to calm her thoughts, to pray-not the Chant of Light that had provided comfort on so many occasions, but the nameless, formless prayer that was simply one soul crying out for guidance and healing.

For the things she was grateful for, she began first. _Maker, thank you for Leliana. For showing me that comfort and understanding may come from even unexpected places. Thank you for the opportunity to fight, to struggle, to defend this world and your creation against Corypheus and his madness. Give me the wisdom to make the right choices, and the strength to see them through. For what happened at the Conclave—_she struggled to put into words what she was feeling, and gave up—_you know my actions and what is in my heart, and I accept your judgment and punishment. Please let those who perished there find their way to your side._

She said and thought no more after that, listening in the stillness of her heart for an answer.

It was a stupid, stupid idea. Not only _this_, but the whole thing. The whole thing.

_Sure, I'll write Swords &amp; Shields for Cassandra,_ he had promised_._ Never mind that the book was a piece of crap, and he had had no idea where to take it. He'd stared at blank paper for what seemed days, occasionally forcing himself to write a few pages, only to tear them up the next time he read them. Until two days ago, when he'd finally given up thinking and just starting writing. Worked on it pretty much the whole time, too—he was tired, and his cramping, aching hand wasn't very happy with him.

_Usually if your right hand is cramping and aching that badly—_

He cut himself off. The lame jokes _weren'_t helping.

Nevertheless, it was done. Written just for her. Not a direction he'd have taken the story if it was being published, but…perhaps she'd appreciate the effort. Or perhaps once she saw it, she'd storm over to his room and punch him in the face. Given her attitude toward him lately, he was strongly betting on the latter. But a promise was a promise. And he was—he admitted it—a sucker for anyone who might need help. His help. Cole and Trevelyan had known exactly what to say to get him to do it.

So, here he was. Sneaking—if one could call walking into the blacksmith's shop in the middle of the day _sneaking_—the book up to her room. Given recent events, he had thought it wasn't the best idea to have the Seeker know he had written it just for her. But Hawke, damn her, had refused to help him. He had come up with a plan, maybe not the best plan in the world, but certainly not terrible—it involved Hawke reading the new chapters where Cassandra could see her. Next to the training dummies, maybe? He hadn't quite worked that part out. Hawke would get up, leave the book behind, Cassandra would pick it up, ask to borrow it…

Okay, maybe the plan _had_ needed a little refinement. But Hawke had refused to even help him at all.

"If you still want to do this, you have to do it personally," she had told him. "Firstly," and she had grinned, "because I'm a terrible actress. She'd see me staring at her, pretending to read, and probably think I was trying to hit on her. Secondly, because…" and she had paused, long enough that he had prodded her.

"Because life is too short," she finally continued, her tone unusually serious. When he had said he didn't know what she was talking about, she had smiled, but refused to say more.

So that left him here. He supposed he could've handed it to Trevelyan and told him to give it to her, but he thought that seemed cowardly, even for him.

Thank the Maker that lately the Seeker was so busy he could count on her to be out of her rooms from dawn till dusk, but he had even checked. She was supposed to be drilling the new recruits on one of the outlying practice fields until supper.

As he walked quietly up the steps, he re-read his note one last time to make sure it was appropriate.

_Seeker,_

_I heard you were a fan. Consider the latest chapters a peace offering?_

_Varric_

Even that short note had taken him several attempts, before he had finally settled on the terse two sentences he had down.

He supposed he would leave it on her desk, or maybe—

He stopped suddenly, motionless, two steps from the top of the staircase. By all the demons in the Fade, _she was here_. When it came to her, if he didn't have bad luck, he'd have no luck at all.

She was lying down, fully dressed, on top of her pallet, her arm thrown over her eyes. She was motionless, and looked like she was asleep. Thank the Maker for small favors. Maybe if he was quiet, he could make his escape before she saw him.

He turned around, silently, and started to descend the steps.

Except—the thought came to him—_What if she was sick?_

_She's not sick, _he told himself sternly.

_But what if she is? She's lying down in the middle of the day, fully dressed. Is that something Cassandra would do? What if she needs to see a healer? _

_If she's supposed to be somewhere, someone will come looking for her, and find her. Soon._

His conscience was unmoved. _Is that good enough if she really is ill? _

He reluctantly admitted his conscience had a point. He turned around, again, and crept back up to the landing. He would have ordinarily knocked on one of the wooden beams that criss-crossed the loft, or maybe cleared his throat to announce his presence, but he still hoped he could leave without alerting her. She had certainly made no bones about the fact that he was _not_ to worry about her any more, and he really didn't want to deal with an angry Cassandra Pentaghast. Again.

Just a few more steps to go to be close enough to check on her breathing, close enough to see if there was a flush on her cheeks, or if she was sweating or shivering, any signs of fever or distress. Then he could leave.

And then—because of course—disaster struck. He was edging closer to her, almost convinced she was fine, but he couldn't hear her breathing, and damned if he was going to leave at this point without being _sure_—when he tripped. On what, he didn't know, and would have insisted there was nothing there. He even checked later for a loose board, or a nail, or _something_—but the floor had been just as bare as the first time he had seen it.

But trip he did, in the way that accidents like that happened—in slow motion, with what seemed like minutes to contemplate how _bad_ this was going to be, as his book and his note went flying out of his hand, arcing up into the air in an impossibly elegant throw that _might_ just land them on her desk, and him—_idiot_—trying vainly to find his balance, even as he realized it was impossible, and came crashing down on top of her.

She reacted without thinking, instinctually, the product of decades of training. She felt, rather than saw, someone about to leap on her, and when he landed she was already halfway into the rolling motion that would take _her_ on top of_ him, _finding his elbows with her knees to lock them there, her hand inches from his throat, wondering how and why someone would attack her _here_—

And found herself staring into a pair of green eyes, eyes that looked so familiar—

"Varric?" she said, incredulously.

Maker, she could have hurt him, seriously, and how would she have forgiven herself if she had? But she hadn't, and the relief, perhaps, is what made her laugh. It is a long, drawn-out, melodious thing, a release of tensions she had been holding in for long weeks.

"I have to say, Seeker," he drawled, from beneath her, "If I had known falling on you would've gotten this reaction, I would have tried it a long time ago."

The words were like him—witty, slightly sarcastic—but the smile he flashed her was a rare, real thing, genuine, like it had warmed his heart to hear her laugh. She wondered at it, and responded with her own tremulous smile.

They stayed that way for a few seconds, and she would have been hard pressed to put a name to her emotions, except perhaps for the surprise of bracing for something violent and ugly, and getting a rare and unexpected gift instead.

"Far be it from me to complain about being trapped under a beautiful woman," he said, twisting his lips, and turning the moment, "But is there any chance you might get up? I can't feel my arms."

She flushed, then, embarrassed by being brought back to reality—fully aware for the first time of her position, his face mere inches from her own, her legs pinning his torso and arms to the ground.

She wrapped her customary irritation around her like a cloak. "It seems to me," she said, releasing him and standing up, "if you sneak into a woman's bedroom uninvited and unannounced, not being able to feel your arms might be counted as getting off lightly."

She extended her hand to him, to help him up.

He cleared his throat, his turn to look embarrassed now, as she waited for an explanation. "Seeker," he said. "If I told you, you wouldn't believe me."

"Try me," she said, crossing her arms.

He sighed. "I was just coming to bring you this," he said, crossing the room, and retrieving a book from her desk. "I didn't think you'd accept it from me—I was trying to sneak it in here. You were _supposed_ to be training recruits this afternoon. I didn't see you sleeping until it was too late—I tripped, and fell, and well," he shrugged, "you know the rest."

Her eyes widened as he handed her the book. The latest chapters to _Swords &amp; Shields_? Her guilty pleasure—but who had told him?

But the question that ended up coming out of her mouth was different. Instead of "Who?" it is "Why?"—and perhaps that is the question she truly wants answered.

The question obviously isn't one he expected either. His face reflected confusion, and surprise, before he finally settled on, "Because I care. And I don't know what else I can do. But you can't go on like you have been."

And before she can question him on what _that_ meant, he turned and walked away.

She sighed. There went her afternoon of prayer and quiet contemplation. But, if she had learned anything in her thirty-eight years, it was that the Maker chose when and how he would answer prayers, and forcing the issue rarely led anywhere except to frustration. She had opened her heart before him, and would again, but he would choose his own means of communicating his answer.

In the meantime…she looked down at the book that Varric had interrupted her hard-earned peace to deliver. Well…why not read it? Just a little. To see how the guard-captain got out of prison.

Varric sat at his desk and grunted as he adjusted his knife between his fingers. The bolts he had received from the quartermaster were just a hair too wide to fit in between Bianca's lugs, requiring him to shave the bolts down, symmetrically, just behind the fletching. It was precise, tedious work, but not work that required a lot of thought—which, ordinarily he welcomed. It gave him plenty of scope to work out the plots of his novels in his head before committing quill to paper.

This evening, however, it wasn't serving him very well.

_You're lucky she didn't hit you. Or kill you. Seriously, what sort of pervert sneaks around in a woman's bedroom?_

It _had_ seemed like a good idea at the time. Or, at least, if not a good idea, a less bad idea than it did right now.

_And then she laughs, and smiles, and the best you can come up with is some crack about a beautiful woman on top of you? You're shitting me, right? _

He winced.

Varric Tethras knew himself pretty well. He had plenty of bad qualities, but he also knew what his good ones were. He was witty. He had a way with words. He could be charming. So why was it that around her he always, unerringly, said exactly the wrong thing?

The harder he tried, the worse it got. Maybe she was right. He blamed himself, a little—okay, a lot—for the guilt she was feeling now. He didn't believe telling her about Hawke would have made any difference—with the way he trusted the Seeker then, he doubted he would have told her anyway—but Cassandra obviously did, and it was eating her up inside.

But maybe his guilt—and hers—was just something they'd have to deal with on their own. He obviously was having no luck helping, and he was probably a fool to even try.

_She'll hate the book._

He swallowed. He had taken a risk with that, and in hindsight, he realized it for the piece of egocentrism it was. She liked it the way it was already. He only had to continue it in that same vein. But no, he had to make it _better_!

_Idiot._

He tried to think of something else. Like what he needed to pack for the Western Approach. How many more bolts he'd need to whittle down. Rhyming words for egocentric (concentric, geometric…not many.) A lovely, rich laugh.

_Damn._

About an hour later, he was almost done—he sat eyeing the stack of bolts in front of him and figured he only needed a few more. Then, maybe a drink or two at the tavern.

When the knock came on the door, he figured it was Hawke, anticipating him. "Come in!" he called. He heard the door open and close, and he gestured toward the bolts, eyes on his work. "My last one."

"You remembered," she said, her voice low and husky, accent stronger than usual. "You remembered what I told you about Anthony and his stories."

He didn't raise his eyes to look at her, knowing he'd see derision and accusation there.

He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry," he said, studying the bolt as if his life depended on memorizing every grain of the wood. "I—it was stupid. Just an idea. Having the dragon hunters break the guard captain out of jail, then going on adventures…" he laughed, a hollow thing. "Not sure why I thought you'd like it."

"It was…" the voice paused, "It was _beautiful_."

He looked up then, and saw the tears glistening in her eyes, saw her pinch the bridge of her nose.

"You don't know what it meant to me," she said, the emotion thick in her voice. She crossed to where he sat, bent, threw her arms around his shoulders, gave him a brief squeeze and whispered "Thank you," next to his ear.

Before he thought to put his arms around her, she had already straightened up.

She turned away, her back to him, hand going up to her face again. "I—I—" she choked, then took a deep breath, a raspy intake and exhale of air.

Finally, she said only,"I have to go," and quickly, and jerkily, walked from the room.

He stayed at his desk. He supposed that meant…she had liked it? He smiled.

All his writing? Agonizing? Planning? Making a fool of himself? _Totally worth it._


	9. Chapter 9

_The silence in the darkest bowels of the prison is rarely broken by an uplifted voice. The men, and women, who are placed here to await execution have already abandoned hope. Confined to solitary cells, they only see the sun in brief glimpses from a tiny bar-covered slit of a window; the light that briefly breaks briefly through seems more like a mock than a promise. Small wonder, then, that the prisoners who come there, to those small, cold, cobbled cells, bear the last days and hours of their lives in quiet despair._

_Elayne is the exception. The former guard-captain has always placed her faith in the Maker, for good or ill, and her soft, lovely voice whispers the Chant as she awaits her death on the morrow._

_Even the prison guard, heart hardened by the hundreds that have passed through on their way to eternity, pauses in his duties as he sees the pious woman, long red hair gleaming in the reflected light of the meager torches, on her knees before the hours of her death to praise her Maker._

_But eventually, he too, moves on, to other tasks, leaving Elayne alone to her prayers._

_It has passed to the night's darkest hour, the hour when the Fade touches reality the most strongly, when men not abed are likely to see demons lurking in the shadows or maleficars doing their accursed work._

_Elayne herself feels faint and feverish as she continues to pray for absolution, her mind tormented by the anguished dread of her unworthiness before the Maker's sight._

_She feels a chill of a sudden, as an unexplained draft of fresh, cold air rushes over her and she hears a faint, tortured groaning. She shivers and clasps her hands together all the harder, and pleads, "Oh Maker, turn not from me in my hour of need, send these torments away, that my soul may be pure—"_

_And suddenly stops, for what appears before her but a vision of the utmost horror—a visage with a wicked, ghoulish grin, marked with scars both new and old, the nose a grotesque caricature that zig-zags haphazardly across his face, and—_

_Elayne sees no more, having fainted dead away, overcome by terror and shock._

_When she awakes, it is to the uncomfortable sensation of being carried, slung across a broad, muscular shoulder, an arm with a grip of iron holding her thighs, clutching them to a warm chest that does little to ameliorate the coldness from the frigid air._

_She shivers and opens her eyes, but sees nothing in a darkness that seems like a presence, malevolent and thick, blanketing her in evil._

"_Ah," the deep voice carrying her rumbles. "You're awake. That's good. Don't know what I'd have said to Marcus if you'd have died on me, after all the trouble I've gone to so far. You're not the lightest person in the world, and this secret passage isn't short. Speaking of short," the voice sounds amused, "I know I'm not the handsomest dwarf in the world, but the fainting was a bit much, don't you think?"_

_She seizes on the one thing she recognizes in his confusing speech. She knows of only one Marcus, but surely—_

"_Marcus?" she says sharply. "Marcus who?"_

"_Why, my lady, which Marcus do you think? Marcus the grocer? Marcus the book-seller? Marcus the sentry?"_

"_No," the voice continues, "legendary Marcus Stuart, the greatest dragon-slayer who ever lived. It is he— _

She was broken from her reverie by a female voice.

"Lady Cassandra!" it said loudly.

She marked her place in the book and looked up, turning to the source of the interruption. She should have known better than to think she could have a quiet, peaceful evening re-reading Varric's newest chapters.

"Yes?" Cassandra said, looking irritably at the Inquisition messenger.

"The Inquisitor requests your presence in the tavern. At your earliest convenience." The messenger bowed. "Is there a reply you'd like me to relay?"

"No," Cassandra sighed. As the messenger departed, she wondered what emergency she was being summoned for. A meeting in the tavern was unusual, but not unheard of. She hoped there weren't any complications relating to their trip to the Western Approach tomorrow.

As she got up, she spared one more regretful look at the elegant, graceful handwriting that would, in the next chapter, bring Elayne to the dark, handsome, and rakish Marcus, where he would introduce her to his merry band of dragon hunters, including the dwarven rogue who had abducted her from prison.

She smiled as she absent-mindedly traced the letters with her finger. She hadn't lied to Varric. It was one of the best gifts she had ever received. That he had favored her with such a thoughtful gesture, after she had been so churlish to him…well, a good friend was hard to find.

And it wasn't just that it was thoughtful—it was that he had seen even what she hadn't, that she had needed the comfort offered within, the reminders of her brother, his stories, and happier times. She hadn't the way with words like he had, but she hoped she had conveyed to him some of what she was feeling when she had went to thank him.

Some of what she was feeling, of course. To have gone to him and said what she was actually feeling was utterly out of the question. _You saw beyond the outside to what was in my heart… and it exhilarates and scares me. Especially when I see how easy it was to penetrate my defenses._

Yes, utterly out of the question.

As she stepped into the tavern, Cassandra became aware of something very quickly. She had been tricked. Not in so many words, of course. The messenger had never said what, specifically, she was being summoned for. But "at your earliest possible convenience" implied an urgent situation.

The only urgent situation she saw was that the card table was one short to play Wicked Grace.

"Cassandra!" Trevelyan hailed her with a smile. "I'm glad you got my message. As you can see, we needed another player." He gestured to the table, between Blackwall and Hawke. "Have a seat."

Josephine paused in shuffling the cards to give her a wink. "Commander Cullen was to be our final player, but he excused himself at the last moment. Said he had urgent matters to attend to. However…I personally think that was just an excuse to ensure he kept his clothing on this evening."

"Wait a second," Hawke said as she glared across the table at Varric. "I wasn't told we were playing _strip_ Wicked Grace."

Blackwall, always chivalrous, hurried to reassure her. "The ambassador was just _joking_," he said.

Hawke waved off his concern. "Oh, I don't care either way," she replied. "I just would've liked to have known ahead of time if we were, so I could've worn my good underwear."

"I never wear any," rumbled Bull. "Always prepared that way, you know?"

"Quite sensible," the Champion grinned. "I like the way you think."

Before the conversation could devolve any further, Cassandra decided to speak up and extricate herself from the situation. "Inquisitor, I appreciate the thought, truly, but I have to pack, and—"

"Cassandra, I'd bet a sovereign that you're already packed and have been for the last two days. Am I wrong?"

"Well, I'm _mostly _packed," she equivocated. "But I always save a few things for the night before."

"So how long does that take? Five minutes?"

She sighed, but then brightened as a thought struck her. "Perhaps I could get Leliana—"

"No!" the Inquisitor interrupted. "She's too good. We'd_ all_ leave the table naked if she played. She's as good Josie," Gareth squeezed his fiancee's hand and smiled, "but without any of the mercy. Please, Cassandra?"

She was about to demur again, when another voice broke in.

"Lady Cassandra, you simply have to stay long enough to tell me your side of the story."

"My side of what story?" Cassandra asked, looking suspiciously at the Champion.

"Well, Varric here," Hawke said, jerking her thumb at her friend across the table, "tells me you enjoy book-stabbing."

"I never said—" the dwarf tried to interject.

"He _also_ tells me," Hawke said, shooting Varric a look, "not explicitly, you understand—but he also tells me you called him on his bullshit." Hawke gestured toward the seat on her right. "Sit down and tell me how you did it. I want to take notes."

Cassandra sighed and sat.

When the game broke up, several hours later, and with Cassandra several silvers poorer, a slightly inebriated Hawke took her by the arm.

"Let me walk you back to your rooms," Hawke said. "We're leaving tomorrow, and this might be my last chance to autograph your _Tales of the Champion_. If you still want me to, of course."

"It would be a privilege," Cassandra said.

When they arrived at Cassandra's rooms, Cassandra went to pull out her stabbed _Tales of the Champion_ from under her bed, while Hawke unabashedly looked around her room.

"Ah!" Hawke said, discovering the open copy of _Swords &amp; Shields_ on her desk. "You know he wrote this for you, right?"

"Who, Varric?" Cassandra said, casually. "He did imply that, yes."

"He worked on it almost every free second he was here in Skyhold. He would write, and then re-read it, and mutter, 'She wouldn't like that,' and tear it up and start over. Do you know how many other people he's done that for?"

"No, but—"

"None," Hawke interrupted. The Champion gave her an impish smile. "I just thought you should know."

Cassandra's could feel her cheeks redden as she handed Hawke her book to autograph. "Champion…I'm afraid you've gotten the wrong idea."

"Have I?" the Champion raised one crooked eyebrow before bending over the desk to sign her name with a flourish.

"There," she said, handing the book back to Cassandra. "First one I've ever autographed. I'm flattered to be asked by the Hero of Orlais."

"My part in that was greatly exaggerated," Cassandra demurred.

"Yes, and everything Varric wrote down in his book about me was the Maker's own truth," Hawke replied with a snort.

"Shit, Cassandra," Hawke said, abruptly changing the subject, "don't you get tired of all this nonsense?" She sat down in the desk chair, and rubbed a hand wearily across her face. "I feel old." She raked her fingers absent-mindedly through her short black hair, hair that was beginning to be streaked with grey. "I'm not even forty yet, and I'm beginning to look like an old woman."

"It is…difficult," Cassandra replied, settling on the word, "being called to do the Maker's work."

"The Maker's work?" Hawke laughed, but it was a harsh, unpleasant sound. "The Maker must have an odd sense of humor, then. All I see is cleaning up after people who were too arrogant, selfish, or stupid to leave well enough alone."

"No, no, don't say anything," Hawke waved Cassandra off when she tried to speak. "I have my own ideas and opinions about the Maker, and I certainly didn't come here to debate theology with you."

"So what _did_ you come here for?" Cassandra challenged.

Hawke sighed and looked down at her hands in her lap, fidgeting with her fingers. "Would you believe me if I told you I wasn't even sure any more? I was going to tell you not to screw him over –he's had a hard life, harder than he lets on, but even so, he has the biggest heart. He just covers it up so people can't hurt him. All the cynicism, all the sarcasm? Just for show. But you know that already, don't you? Or suspect at any rate."

At the conclusion of this surprising speech, Cassandra was ready to argue. How dare Hawke imply what she had? But beyond that, for her to warn her not to hurt him? What kind of person did Hawke think she was?

But then Cassandra looked at the Champion—truly looked. It was easier when Hawke had her head down. Her mobile, expressive mouth and vivid eyes were usually all you saw when you looked at her—eyes that sparkled with life, a sly smile that was quick to find humor.

But now, looking down at the Champion as she abstractedly chewed at her nails, Cassandra saw a small, fragile woman. A woman, if not old, as Hawke averred, at least a woman older than her years.

Cassandra opened her mouth to apologize, then thought better of what she was about to say. She suspected it was the last thing Hawke wanted.

"He's lucky to have a friend like you," she said instead, softly.

"Lucky?" Hawke looked at her, smiling a smile that was more like a grimace. "Probably far luckier for him to have never met me. Seems like whenever I turn up, things go to shit." Her chin trembled for a moment, before she looked away. "Fucking listen to me. I always turn into a sad sack anytime I drink."

Hawke rose to her feet then, blinking, looking at the floor. "Probably time for me to get back to my room."

Cassandra extended her hand, and when the smaller woman grasped hers, she said, sincerely, "It was good to talk to you. And…even though I still think you're mistaken, if it matters, you have my word that I won't…" she paused, recollecting Hawke's words, "I won't 'screw him over'."

"All I can ask," Hawke said, giving her hand a final squeeze before releasing it. "See you tomorrow, bright and early?"

"I'll be there," Cassandra agreed.

As Hawke descended the stairs, she shook her head, then laughed. "I was right," she muttered. "Just like a Nevarran Aveline. Who'd have fucking thought?"


	10. Chapter 10

Varric wondered why soldiers and military types always wanted to leave at the crack of dawn. Why not the crack of noon, for example? He and Hawke had done a lot of hero-type shit in Kirkwall. Did it ever require them to roll out of bed before the sun was up? No, no it did not.

He shivered in the pre-dawn cold as he wondered if he ought to emphasize that fact more in subsequent editions of _Tale of the Champion_. He could contact his editor, rework a few sentences…

His reverie was cut short by the appearance of Hawke, who was hauling her gear in a bulging pack that she thumped on the ground with a grunt. He grinned as he saw her appearance. A morning person she was not. Her hair was standing in loosely collected tufts about her head, her boots were unlaced, and unless he missed his guess, she was still in the same clothes she was wearing last night.

She nodded at Loghain and greeted Varric in her usual inimitable style. "Andraste's left ass cheek, Varric, I was even late so I wouldn't have to wait out here in the cold. I don't suppose the Inquisitor and the Seeker have gone to get the horses?"

"No," Loghain answered for him. "Neither of them has yet made an appearance."

Hawke groaned.

Loghain replied to her unspoken appeal. "I'll see to the horses. They can't be much longer."

When Loghain had passed out of earshot, Varric addressed Hawke. "You never did tell me how you became friends with a dry old stick like him."

"Well," Hawke said, with a note of suggestion in her voice, "Let's just say he's less dry and old and more…stick."

"You didn't," Varric said, aghast.

"Of course I didn't!" she said, laughing. "You know I don't even like men, for Maker's sake. You're getting more and more credulous in your old age, Varric. A few more years and you may have to get Merrill to explain jokes to you."

Varric snorted. "You still didn't answer my question."

"That's because the truth is boring. We both met on the road and happened to be travelling in the same direction for a few days. No sticks, dry or otherwise, were involved."

"I suspect there's a better story there than 'we both happened to be travelling in the same direction'."

"There is," she agreed. "But it's not really my story to tell."

Varric grunted, and still smarting from being taken in by Hawke, decided silence was his best course of action—at least until he was more fully awake. As the minutes slowly dragged by, though, without the appearance of either Trevelyan or Cassandra, Varric's slight irritation began to morph into a touch of concern. A touch. People were late all the time, and usually it was nothing more than oversleeping or maybe things just taking longer than anticipated. To claim he was worried would be to exaggerate the case. It was ridiculous to get worried when not only their leader, but also the most punctual, duty-driven, I-rise-before-dawn-even-when-I-don't-have-to woman he had ever seen was late.

He was worried.

When Loghain came back with the horses, and neither one of them had made an appearance, Varric felt the first vague pricklings of alarm.

"Getting a little cold out here," Varric said, attempting to be casual. "I think I'll go find out what's keeping the others."

He was saved his journey, though, by the appearance of Leliana, walking down the stairs from Skyhold, dark cloak billowing behind her. They all waited, following her with their eyes, as she drew close to their little group.

"I am sorry no one was sent earlier," Leliana said, slightly breathless. "It was overlooked in the…confusion. The Inquisitor had some matters that came up at the last minute that he had to personally attend to. You'll now depart at midday, to give Bull time to pack."

The Spymaster nodded at them, and having said what she came to say, left the way she had come.

Varric's alarm had now turned to fear.

It took his legs a moment to obey his mind, paralyzed as they were with what Leliana's news had implied. Bull would be coming, not Cassandra. Cassandra was hurt, or she was sick, or...or worse. He ran after the Spymaster, finally catching her halfway up the steps, grabbing her elbow, not caring how it looked, or what she thought.

"Leliana, is she…is she all right?" he asked, afraid of the answer. "Can I see her?"

"Who?" Leliana said, her face changing from irritation at Varric's interruption to puzzlement at his question.

"Cassandra," he said urgently.

"Cassandra," she said, her brows knitting together, as if she were trying to solve a puzzle. Then a flash of understanding lit her face. "Of course you can see her. Follow me."

She strode off, and Varric was hard-pressed to keep up with her, as they went up another flight of stairs, then two, then up to the battlements, where the swirling wind whipped at his clothes, freezing him with icy knives, knives he hardly noticed with the chill of fear that gripped his heart.

They walked along, making a right turn, then up another flight of steps, toward a room almost at the very top of the walls—Cullen's office.

"Here she is," the Nightingale said. "Now if you'll excuse me…"

"But—" Varric started.

"She'll explain," Leliana said, her words already becoming fainter, as she strode away without a glance behind her.

Varric stared at her retreating back before turning to face the door, more confused now than fearful. Surely Leliana wouldn't act like that if Cassandra was hurt. Would she?

He breathed in deeply, knocked to announce his presence, and entered the room to find Cassandra seated at Cullen's desk, frowning over some documents.

"Inquisitor—" she said, and then looked up.

"Varric?" she said in another tone, less business-like, more confused. "What are you doing here?"

He searched her face and found no signs of distress except, perhaps, for some physical tiredness and tension, and the unmistakable appearance of someone who had awakened in a hurry. She had dark circles under her eyes that weren't concealed by her usual makeup, her hair was mussed, and instead of her usual armor, she had on regular clothes. But other than that, she looked absolutely fine.

"Making an idiot out of myself, apparently," he said, embarrassed. "Leliana said something, and I thought you were sick, which you're obviously not, of course…" his voice trailed off.

_And I panicked and thought something bad had happened to you, and I wanted to come rushing to your aid. As if I could do anything about it anyway. Smart, Varric. Really smart._

"I'll just be going and leave you to…whatever you're working on," he said, and turned to leave.

"No!" she said, sharply.

He turned around and she bit her lip. "I mean, it would be nice if you would stay for a few minutes." She indicated a chair across the desk. "I'd like to talk." She rubbed her temples wearily.

He sat, and she immediately surprised him by stretching her hand out across the table, seeking his. When he responded, wrapping his hand around hers, she sighed, and laid her forehead down on top of their conjoined fingers, unmoving for a few moments, as if she were seeking solace there.

"It hasn't been a good night," she said, finally picking her head up. "Everyone will know soon enough, so I don't think I'm betraying a confidence by telling you…Cullen isn't well. You know he was trying to stop taking lyrium?"

Varric nodded. He hadn't known for a fact, but he had heard rumors to that effect, whispered amongst the Templars.

"Well, Leliana had went to discuss something with him late last night. When she found him, he was shaking, and apparently hallucinating. He was screaming at demons to stop touching him. Apparently all kinds of other things, too. I don't know." She shook her head.

"By the time I got here, he had calmed down, but he was still…not in a good way." She paused, and he waited as she stared off into the distance, as if replaying the scene in her head. Finally, she continued.

"We've taken him to the infirmary, and they've given him medicine to get him to sleep, but," she shrugged, "there's no telling what may happen now."

Varric was never particularly close to the Commander, but still felt shocked by what he had heard. "Will he be all right?"

Cassandra nodded. "Ultimately, yes. It's just a matter of whether he will be able to quit the lyrium or not. Some of the healers believe his health will not improve until he re-takes the lyrium. Others say it's a crisis point, and after he gets through this, his addiction will be mostly cured. Thankfully, it's not my decision, but Cullen's and the Inquisitor's. "

"What do you think?" Varric asked softly.

"I think he's tried so hard to quit, he should be allowed to try to continue, if that is his wish, until it is absolutely certain he cannot. But…as I said, it is not my decision."

"They will both listen to you."

"Perhaps," Cassandra said. "But perhaps they should not. I do not know," she said, squeezing his hand once more.

"All I know is, all this responsibility," she gestured around the room, "is mine now, as the Inquisition's temporary commander."

"You?" he blurted, surprised. Not that she was unsuitable as a choice; in fact, she was probably the best candidate, but somehow he never saw her doing anything but placing her shield in front of the Inquisitor, or him, absolutely fearless, charging their enemies, drawing their attacks…

She misunderstood him and gave him a crooked smile. "Unbelievable, is it not? I told the Inquisitor not to blame me if his forces mutiny within the week. I can fight, but Seekers aren't exactly trained to lead armies, and I'm not exactly the sort of person people want to follow." She gave a depreciating laugh and looked away.

He stared at her. She was serious. "Cassandra," he said, leaning forward, placing his free hand gently under her jaw, and tilting her head to meet his eyes. "Even when I hated you, I would have followed you. Everyone sees how hard you drive yourself, how much you care about them, about doing the right thing. They might not like you, but they'll follow you to the ends of the earth just because you ask them to."

She gave him a brief nod, and a tight smile. "Thank you. Even if it is flattery, it means something that you would say it."

"It isn't flattery," he said fiercely, willing her to believe it.

"I suppose I should just be glad you do not hate me anymore," she said, with a small upward twist of her lips.

"I don't hate you," he said softly.

It really wasn't the right time to do what he was about to do. In fact, it was probably a very _bad _time. He should probably let go of her hand, take his fingertips off her jaw from where they cradled her face lightly, make a dumb joke, wish her luck, and leave.

But he didn't. He thought of this woman, the hard façade she presented to the world, and the real vulnerability on the inside; she was so supremely talented, accomplished and decisive, but filled with self-doubt. And all of it, somehow, she trusted herself to express to him in this moment.

Instead, of withdrawing, he moved his hand slightly, using his fingers to skim the line of her cheekbone, as he had once done when she was asleep, but now reveling in the feeling of her soft skin, the faint blush that rose wherever his hand moved, as he gently explored the hollow of her cheek, then down to the three tiny marks, so close to her mouth, before taking his thumb and gently, with a feather-light touch, tracing the line of her lower lip, so soft and delicate in contrast to his calloused finger.

He could feel his pulse start to beat more strongly, and she looked down and swallowed, but didn't draw away.

He paused, giving her a chance to turn the moment if she wanted to—

_-and Maker, he hoped she didn't—_

before he leaned over the desk, drawing out of his chair, and he noticed that she leaned forward too, eyes closed, head slanted, their lips meeting gently in the middle, not in an awkward clash of teeth and tongues, as it had been that first, barely remembered, time, but a light pressure, feeling her lips, warm and giving, on his, hearing her shallow breaths, smelling the wonderful spicy smell of her skin and her soap, until somehow, by a mutual decision, they both agreed it wasn't enough. She opened her mouth to him, drawing him in, teasing and gratifying him with gentle touches of her tongue, his hand moving to tangle in her hair, knowing that having gone here, it was not enough—_not nearly enough_—and he felt like he was drowning and on fire at the same time. He traced the outline of her lips with his tongue, and heard a soft moan suppressed by his mouth on hers, and even though he hadn't intended it to get this out of hand, his only thought now was to get her even closer so he could touch her, feel her against him, and—

"Cassandra, do you have—" he heard a voice from behind him, and Varric froze. A shocked silence settled over the room that seemed to last for ages, but probably only lasted a second or two, and then he heard a stammered, "Excuse me," and a door slam.

"Trevelyan?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, drawing away from him, cheeks aflame, leaning back into her chair, dropping her head into her hands. "Maker's breath," she groaned.

He felt a vise start to settle over his chest, felt like he was being squeezed from the inside, like he couldn't get enough air.

"Should I apologize?" he asked, tightly.

Her eyes flew open then, as embarrassment was chased out by confusion. "What? Why?"

He could feel his throat constrict, and it was hard to form words against the lump there. "For…I mean, if you didn't want—"

"No!" she said loudly. Then more quietly, with her cheeks still flushed as she met his eye, "No. I just…it wasn't the best time, but…no. Don't apologize. Because then I'll have to, and," a small smile appeared, "I don't want to."

He felt like he could breathe again.

"I should probably go see what the Inquisitor wants," Cassandra said, without making a move to get up.

"You're not going to be able to come with us to the Western Approach, I take it." It wasn't a question.

"No," she said. "I wish I could, but…"

"You'll have it easy," he assured her. "Sleeping in a warm bed while we freeze our asses off at night and bake to death during the day. And you'll get to avoid all the snakes, and lizards, and Venatori, and whatever the fuck else they've got there."

"And I get to deal with a bunch of smart-ass recruits who think they know everything already, and a bunch of Templars who look at me cross-eyed every time I speak. I think I'd rather have the desert."

He smiled at her. "It won't be that bad."

"No," she grumbled. "It'll be worse."

She smiled at him then, the genuine smile she showed so rarely, the one that always made his heart turn over.

"Just do something for me, Varric," she finally said, suddenly serious.

"What?" he asked, filled with trepidation.

"Don't do anything brave."

He laughed then. "I never try to, Seeker. I never try to."

"I would not want to lose you," she said, and stopped and bit her lip as if afraid she had said too much, and rushed to fill the silence, talking too quickly.

"Hopefully Commander Cullen recovers soon, and I can get out of this office, but in the meantime, I had better see what the Inquisitor wants, and start looking at training schedules, and meeting with some of the squad leaders, and going over our inventory…" she trailed off.

"Of course," he said, rising from his chair. "Don't let me keep you."

He stopped at the door, though, and said, "I wouldn't want to lose you, either."

And without awaiting a response, he left.

When they gathered again that day—at a much more sensible hour—Hawke elbowed him and said in an undertone, "Work things out with the Seeker, then?"

"Who?" he asked, all innocence.

"Don't play coy with me, Varric."

"Oh_, that_ Seeker," he clarified. "Well, I wouldn't say anything really happened. We just met in the hall for a time and happened to be travelling in the same direction."

"You're an ass," she grumbled.

"Paybacks are hell," he agreed.


	11. Chapter 11

If there was one piece of advice she could give someone, it would be this: never have a novel written about you, at least while you're alive. If you were dead, of course, all bets were off.

Not that this was particularly useful advice. She could probably count on the fingers of two hands the number of people she'd met whose lives were sufficiently epic enough to justify novels. Well, maybe two hands and some toes. And two of them she had just met: Cassandra Pentaghast and Leliana of the unknown last name, who bore little relationship to the beautiful, innocent sister she vaguely remembered from Lothering. But since neither of them seemed likely to consent to being written about, she hadn't felt particularly inclined to warn them.

But just because it wasn't particularly useful advice didn't make it less valid. Of course, it didn't really affect some people. But how were you supposed to know if you were one of the people it would affect or not before it happened? And after it happened, it would be too late. So better not to chance it.

She spared an affectionate backward glance at Varric. He was bouncing up and down on his sturdy mountain pony more than strictly necessary, a look of pained resignation on his face; though, truth to tell, the look was shared by both horse and rider, who seemed to tolerate each other with varied levels of contempt. Varric, the townsman, would never be more than a passable rider.

"Keeping tabs on your people?" says the voice beside her.

"Didn't you?" she returns, already knowing the answer.

"Always," he says. "Always."

She spares him one of her smiles. Not the fake ones, one of the real ones. The fake ones she has in innumerable supply. The real ones seem to be dwindling, not day by day, but it seems every time she thinks about it, she has less and less. She wonders, sometimes, if there will be a day when they dry up altogether.

She startles out of him a rare smile as well, the kind that make his blue eyes sparkle and the years drop off his face, and she wonders if he has the same problem. Is there a time that comes when you look into the box that used to contain your happiness and you realize you only have thirty smiles left? Or twenty? Or ten? What then?

They ride in the companionable silence that defines the majority of their relationship. He doesn't expect much, and she doesn't either. Acceptance is enough for each of them. She isn't entirely sure of his motivations, but for her, it's a relief not to be around someone who expects her to be well, THE CHAMPION. In her mind, it's always in bold letters. But she's not just THE CHAMPION. Or, at least, there was one time when that was true. But the expectations seem to have drawn in and around her, at first, without her knowing; and then when she did know, powerless to do anything about it.

So that's what she is now to everyone. One Hawke. One CHAMPION. A combination of hero, jester, courtesan, and lucky talisman. A prison. Except with him.

He breaks the silence some minutes later. "If you don't mind me asking, why meddle with Varric and Cassandra?"

She pauses to think before she replies. And even if his question is impertinent, she knows he never asks to pry or to mock. So she takes her time and sifts through her answers.

She wants to say because she cares and wants to see Varric happy. She wants to say she's a meddler by nature, and she can't help herself. She wants to say it's because Varric's been entangled with someone totally unsuitable, and anything would be better than her. Bianca is the kind of woman who will take and take and take, and never give anything back, until Varric is all gone, and this Cassandra, while there are no guarantees, at least she is someone who can give as well as take.

But all of these answers, while true, don't feel right enough. So she ponders some more, and finally, comes up with the truth. "I think if I don't meddle, he'll end up like me. Empty. Trapped."

He is the only one she can talk to like this.

"And what if he does anyway?" the man beside her asks, so softly she can barely hear him over the noise of the road.

She thinks. "Then I'll have done what I can. What little I can," she says.

He nods. "So the trying is important?"

"Of course."

"Thank you for reminding me," he says.

But she knows him better than that now, knows why he asked the question had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her. That's why she loves him.

It was a cliché worthy of Varric's novels to say that it crept up on her suddenly, but that's what happened. She _had_ met him on the road, and they _were_ both travelling in the same direction. He, on a mission for the Wardens, and she, somewhat at a loss as to what to do. Kirkwall was no longer home anymore, not after Anders had done what he had done. But still, she had stayed on until Varric had written _The Tale of the Champion_—with her full consent—and for some time after that, until she felt suffocated, and instead of Vivian Hawke, she had become THE CHAMPION.

She had travelled with Isabella, loved Isabella, but they were both people who needed their space. And so, on one of their breaks, while Isabella was busy "liberating" some cargo from some unsuspecting merchanters, she had gone south, with a vague notion of going back and seeing Lothering.

She had met him late one rainy night, unbelievably enough, in a cave. She had been between two Fereldan hamlets that had barely merited the name when she had decided to find shelter, and he had been there first.

They had spent the night together, and while it was awkward at first, after she had found out he was Loghain, Hero of River Dane and Traitor to his country, things became considerably easier. Hero and traitor—they were both names that had been applied to her as well. But she knew all too well the folly of such judgments, so she took him for who he was, and he did the same for her, and their conversation that night, while never free and easy—he wasn't a chatterer by nature—was at least honest and sincere and without expectations.

She had surprised herself by asking him the next morning if he could use an extra hand on his mission, and he had responded, "Yes," while looking startled he had done so. She had laughed at the look on his face, and he had smiled back.

So they had travelled together, and when the mission was done, she found she wasn't, and nor was he. So here she is, and here they are, and she feels lucky to have met him, whatever their odd relationship is. It's not sexual, and it's not parental, but it's more than friends, and whatever it is, it's a gift.

Varric felt bad for Hawke. The road was really only good for two abreast, and Bull and Trevelyan were in the lead, and had spent most of the morning demonstrating—bragging—about their different kills, or wounds, or fighting techniques, or—whatever. Varric wasn't particularly interested, and nor did he care. He had tried to maneuver next to Hawke, but his pony ignored his gentle suggestions to speed up, as well as his more pointed ones—made with spurs—with a stubbornness that suggested any further attempts by Varric would be equally futile.

That left Loghain and Hawke next to each other, and while Loghain might be good in a fight- or at least hehad been good in a fight, but at his age now, who knew?— he was a stern, hard man, and Varric knew Hawke must be chafing at being next to him, mile after humorless mile.

He hadn't missed the look of appeal Hawke had given him a few minutes ago, but realistically, what could he do? He supposed he would apologize to her tonight and see if he could arrange things tomorrow so Loghain took the rear.

In the meantime, he supposed he could always daydream about the Seeker. He smiled.

"—_found out Wardens were performing blood magic to raise demon army-tricked by Tevinter mage, Lord Erimond, who works for Corypheus. Wardens and Erimond withdrew to fortress at Adamant. Muster forces and siege equipment, especially trebuchets, as soon as possible, for assault to take place no later than two weeks from today_—"

"Have the trebuchets there in two weeks?" Cassandra interrupted. "Is he mad or simply delusional? I'd be hard pressed to have them there in two months!"

"Cassandra, please. Let me finish." Leliana shot Cassandra an irritated look, and then went back to reading the message.

"_Loghain in possession of old maps that may inform battle plan. Will discuss when everyone arrives. All well here, only minor injuries. Trevelyan."_

Cassandra sighed and pursed her lips in thought. "Let me talk to some people and see what we can come up with. I'll let you know when I have a message to send back."

Leliana nodded. "You know where to find me," she said, and left Cullen's office.

Before doing anything else, Cassandra bowed her head and took a moment to pray to the Maker. She has learned many times over the course of her life, including recently, that neglecting the Maker's guidance led to turmoil. That doesn't mean her prayers have to be particularly elaborate, however.

_Dear Maker, thank you for keeping them safe. Thank you especially—_she paused, but she knows the Maker can read her heart, so there is no point in deception—_thank you especially for keeping Varric safe. He is…dear to me. Please let me make wise decisions, and let our plans meet favor in your eyes._

After she has given thanks, she called to the messenger stationed outside the office. "Tell the company commanders to meet me here in an hour."

"Yes, Lady Cassandra," the messenger bowed before departing.

Cassandra grimaced. This wasn't going to be pleasant.

The Inquisitor's orders were impossible, and managing all the different—and difficult—personalities of her company commanders invariably gave her a headache. She supposed she could give orders and then dismiss them, but she had already learned, to her cost, it was usually best to let them have their say. She was new to the managing of large groups of men and equipment, and in between all of their bullshit, there was occasionally useful advice.

Still, she wondered how Cullen had done it. She made a mental note to speak with the Inquisitor about a raise if—when—Cullen felt better.

Speaking of which…she probably had time to visit Cullen in the infirmary before everyone was due in her office.

"How are you doing?" she asked him, as he sat up in his bed on her arrival. "You're looking well."

That was a lie. He was looking terrible—he had lost weight, looked pale, and she noticed lines in his face she had never seen before. But it would do no good to say so.

He smiled—a shaky, weak thing that looked as fragile as he did. "I'm feeling better, actually." And then he amended, as if he couldn't bear to tell an untruth, "Well, for the most part. When I'm not having…" his voice trailed off, and she waited patiently. "When I'm not having my _episodes_, I suppose," he concluded, his voice bitter.

Cassandra had vowed not to mention retaking the lyrium unless he mentioned it first. Still, she found it hard to bite her tongue when she saw him like this. She had never known before—or perhaps had never wanted to know—what the templars went through in their service to the Chantry. She had thought of lyrium as a necessary evil, but not a very pernicious one.

She had changed her mind in the last two weeks. She had been here many times, seen this tall, strong man shrink and turn into a shadow of himself. Once, he had asked her to pray with him. She had been more than happy to comply, her strong contralto leading his weak tenor in the Chant of Light. When, after a time, he had finally started to falter, and then ceased altogether, she had felt relieved that he had at least found peace in sleep.

Until his hands had found her neck, quick as a snake, cutting off her air, as he named her an abomination and screamed obscenities at her. It had taken all her strength, as well as two other healers, who were summoned by the commotion, to get him off of her. He had still been screeching at her as they tied him down.

"You'll be back upstairs in your office before you know it," she said, smiling at him. "And I'll be more than glad to give it back to you."

"Really?" he said, with a faint smile, as he eased his head back down on his pillows. "That's actually not what I heard."

She looked at him. Did he really think she had designs on his job? Maker, if she could give it back today, it wouldn't be one hour too soon.

"Cullen," she said, grasping his cold, clammy hand where it lay on top of the covers, and giving it a squeeze, "trust me when I say I'm only keeping your seat warm."

"Now that," he said, "is closer to the truth." He began to chuckle, before it turned into a reedy cough, and then a coughing fit that left him fighting for breath, and left her feeling helpless and powerless.

She wanted to shake him and demand he take the lyrium, tell him that enough was enough, and that no one would find fault with him restarting now. It was only with effort she held her peace. If he could bear to live through it, the least she could do is bear to watch, to be a witness to this travesty.

Once he had regained his composure, she pasted a smile on her face. "So what were you saying, Cullen? That I'm getting comfortable in your job? Trust me, I'm not. And I think I've even heard several of the men have become more devout recently. They're all praying for your speedy recovery," she said, grinning at him, hoping to coax out his sense of humor.

"No, no," he said weakly through blue-tinged lips. "Not the job, the office."

"The office?" she blinked, confused. She hoped his mind wasn't starting to wander again. "I mean, it's a very nice office, I suppose, but kind of inconvenient to get to. And cold," she said. "I guess the Nevarran in me has never learned to appreciate your Fereldan winters."

"Heard you found a way…to warm it up."

She frowned. What was he talking about? The fires she always ordered to be roaring—

Her eyes narrowed. No. He couldn't be. She looked closer at him, saw the faint smile playing on his lips under his pallor.

"How in Andraste's name—" she almost yelped. "You've been in the infirmary the entire time!"

"I'm sick, not…deaf," he weakly clarified. "Though I…shouldn't tease." His words were coming now with more and more effort, and he closed his eyes and appeared to be focused on moving his lips. "Happy for you," he croaked.

She bit back her impulse to explain, to say it wasn't quite as simple as that, but she resisted. What was the purpose of clarifying? At this point, if he was happy with it, she was happy with it. For all she cared, if it brought a smile to his face, he could believe she was consorting with dancing bears. She could disabuse him later, if—when—he got better.

"Thank you, Cullen," she said, the momentary color that flared into her cheeks at the remembrance mercifully unobserved.

His only response was another ghost of a smile.

Seeing his tiredness, Cassandra decided to leave. She grasped his fingers, wanting to say something, to tell him that all this was unfair, and she was ashamed of what the Chantry was doing, had done to him and others like him. But in the end, she told him only to rest, and that she would be back soon to visit.

She stopped on her way out of the infirmary to speak with the head healer, who she found grinding some herbs with a mortar and pestle.

"He doesn't seem to be getting any better," Cassandra said, without preamble. "If anything, he's worse."

The grey-haired woman—her name always escaped Cassandra—looked up briefly from her task, frowned at Cassandra, then went back to grinding.

"We're keeping him comfortable. I'm even getting his medicine ready now, to stop what pain I can. But his hallucinations and fatigue? I have nothing for that. And before you ask, I don't know how long it will take the lyrium to pass out of his system, so I can't say when he'll be getting better. Or _if_ he will."

There was a pause, and then the healer carefully said, "As I've told you several times already, Lady Cassandra."

"Yes, yes, I know," Cassandra said impatiently. "I just thought…maybe something had changed or you knew something else…" her voice trailed off.

The healer put her pestle down and gave her a searching look, before she finally said, "If I find out anything new, you will be the first person I tell." She then poured the contents of her mortar into a cup, which she filled with hot water.

"Now if you'll excuse me, Lady Cassandra," the healer said pointedly. "I have work to do."

Cassandra massaged her temples. She had a headache and not a migraine, which meant the meeting had gone better than expected. They'd be ready to march, and, if not with the trebuchets, at least they could make some mangonels on site, and get most of the men ready to march_ if_ the supplies came in on time, and _if_ the sickness passing through the barracks right now was food poisoning, as the healers suspected, and not pestilence, which was a possiblility, and _if_ they were only going to be at Adamant less than a month, because any more and they'd need a more substantial supply train, which would require…

And so many _ifs_, each of which needed to be considered, and planned for.

She sighed, and her fingers itched for her sword and shield, and her temper itched to just _hit_ something.

But her mind, her traitorous mind, went back to the words she heard earlier in the day. _You found a way to warm things up_ and she thought of a roguish smile, and soft lips, and fingers twining in her hair, and—

_A bunch of things that don't matter, that he's probably forgotten about already_, she reminded herself. _And besides, don't you have paperwork to do?_

She sighed again and pulled out her ink, quill, and a stack of papers. It was going to be a long night—a series of long nights and long days—to get everything ready for Adamant.


	12. Chapter 12

The voices are always with him now. They're there during the day, droning in his ear, a faint, unintelligible buzzing that he can ignore with effort; irritating, but he's dealt with worse. Much worse.

But in his sleep-Maker, in his sleep!—they become more and more insistent, speaking in words he can't name, but he knows they are calling him, calling him to foul places and fouler deeds, and his mind twists away, but they laugh as they pursue him. And they are always _calling_, _calling_, sometimes roaring at him, sometimes whispering lovingly in his ear, words with the pungency of rotten meat, sweet and grotesque, filling his mind with longing and loathing, so insistent that part of him wants to do their bidding, wants to let them fill him, wants to turn himself over to them and glory with them in their depravity—until he awakens with a shiver and a curse.

He wants to vomit, wants to scream, but he does what he does every night, and opens his canteen with trembling fingers, and drinks until the voices fade, and his hands are steady, until he can wipe the wetness from his cheeks and the sweat from his brow.

And then he does what he's done every night here, and goes to relieve the watch, to spend time in the cold, crisp, desert air, to look at the stars and the moon. Anything to avoid his tent and the nightmares that linger within.

This night, _she's_ the watch, and he's glad to see her, but he only crooks his thumb and says, "May as well get some sleep. I'll take it from here."

She looks at him, and he sees with the light from the full moon that her brow is creased and her blue eyes shadowed, and damn, the last thing he wants to do is be a burden on someone else.

But she comes to him before he can protest and wraps her arms around his waist, her head on his chest. She's a small woman and doesn't even come to his chin. But as she squeezes her arms around him, there's strength there, and he allows himself to feel safe for just a moment before he breaks the embrace.

He expects her to go to her tent then, but all she does is give him a half-smile and says, "Don't think I'll be able to sleep either. Mind if I stay?"

And curse him for being weak-willed, but he nods, and as she sits beside him through the long watch, he forgets about the voices for a time, and when she reaches over to grasp his hand, he holds onto it like a lifeline and doesn't let go.

"Shit, Hawke," he curses, wincing, as she unwinds the bandage from his shoulder. "Has anyone ever told you that you have the hands of a warrior?"

"As opposed to a healer, you mean?" she asks, looking at the bubbling, blistering, pink skin on Varric's shoulder, before a brief glow of blue magic emanates from her fingers.

"Andraste's tits!" he exclaims with a groan. "Forget I said warrior. Your healing magic has all the grace of a blind executioner wielding a rusty axe."

She laughs. "At least I know if your mouth is moving, your shoulder isn't hurting _too_ badly," she says. "And if you don't like my bedside manner, I'd be a little quicker to dodge the next time a mage aims a fireball at you."

She considers his wound carefully. "It's actually healing pretty well for as bad as it was. Guess I learned something from Anders after all."

She pauses, and the name hangs in the air between them.

Varric wants to tell her that it wasn't her fault, that if it is anyone's fault it's his—he knew Anders was planning something, he just failed to realize what, and she—well, she'd never consider one of her friends would do something like that, and that wasn't a failing.

But he had said those words before, many times, and even with his powers of persuasion, they had failed to comfort her, so he settled for a distraction this time instead.

"What do you suppose they're spending so long discussing in there?" he asks, nodding to the command tent, where Cassandra, the Inquisitor, Loghain, and some of Cassandra's commanders had disappeared long hours ago.

The army had ridden in this morning, before the sun was up, and Varric had caught a glimpse of Cassandra, stern and proud, at the head of the army.

"Their battle plans," Hawke says. "From what Loghain tells me, the army is going to start the attack, provide us a distraction, while we sneak into the fortress using the tunnels dug for the old well. More than that, I don't know."

He thinks of it, thinks of Cassandra and the army as bait, and even though he knows it's ridiculous—_she's been fine before and she'll be fine again_—a sense of foreboding distracts him as Hawke starts winding a fresh bandage around his shoulder.

"There's still time, you know," she says, carefully avoiding his eyes as she concentrates on getting the bandage tight but not too snug. "To say…" she pauses, "to say whatever needs to be said."

"There's so many reasons why that's a terrible idea," he says, and follows it with a bitter laugh. "Too many to count."

He thinks of how impossible it is, even if there is something there, between him and the Seeker—which there is, his mind reminds him, refusing to allow him to lie.

_I don't want to apologize, she says, her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed, and not just with embarrassment—I don't want to lose you—It means more to me than I can say—_

He's been playing with fire, and he has to be more careful before his heart goes the way of his shoulder, before he can duck out of the way.

When it was just lust, just guilt, just caring, it was…fine. More than fine. Great. But he's been thinking of her over the last week, and…what? There's nothing there for them, nothing he can see, and dammit, he's not going to fall in lo—he's not going to be with someone he has no future with. Not again.

Him? He's a writer, sometime tagalong, and member of the Dwarven Merchant's Guild. He's got a bit of social status, and more money than he knows what to do with now. Not bad for a casteless younger brother whose father was a cheat and whose mother drank herself to death. Her, though? Princess of Nevarra, Seeker of Truth, Hero of Orlais, Right Hand of the Divine, Founder of the Inquisition and now leader of its armies. He's sure there's more titles and honors in there that he's forgetting, but that's more than enough to prove his point.

He's not eighteen anymore, and smart enough now to recognize a lost cause when he sees one. He loved Bianca, and maybe still does, but that love wasn't enough to give them a future.

He can't take that again.

"No," he finally concludes, as Hawke ties the bandage off. "She and I…well, she wouldn't be happy after all this Inquisition stuff is done. We're just too different." He stares off into space for a moment, convinced of the truth of his words, but wishing it were otherwise.

He shakes his head and brings himself back to the present. He looks at Hawke's handiwork, flexes his arm, rolls his shoulder. "Not too bad," he says, impressed. "It still hurts like a demon when you touch it, but if you don't…good as new." He pulls his shirt back on over the bandage.

"You must be exhausted," Hawke says as she stands, stretching out her hand to help him up.

"Why?" he grunts, grasping her hand, as he levers himself up with his good arm. "You're the one that's been doing all the healing."

"Well, I usually only have the energy to think for myself, with everything else I do. I'm impressed you have the energy to think for the Seeker, too," Hawke says, looking him in the eye this time, not very much taller than he is. "But I'm sure it's for the best. She certainly strikes me as a woman who doesn't know her own mind, and can't make her own decisions."

Varric winces at the sarcasm in her voice. "It's not—"

"—that simple," she concludes. "Yes, I know." But her tone indicates not agreement, but disapproval.

"For fuck's sake, Hawke," he says, exasperated. "What do you want from me?"

There is a long pause as she looks at him, sizing him up, before she says, simply, calmly, "I want you to stop being a coward, Varric."

He feels his temper flaring; he hasn't gotten angry, truly angry, at Hawke in—well, in a long while, but…maybe it's the being questioned, maybe it's being treated like an idiot, maybe it's his shoulder, and maybe…well, maybe it's something else, but he's tired of it.

"And what would you have me do, Hawke?" he asks, his voice rising, loudly and sarcastically. "Tell her I love her only to wait my turn in line after this is all over? I can already have that with Bianca, in case you haven't forgotten," he says, stabbing his finger into her chest. "Just because you're fine with Isabella gallivanting around the Waking Sea, with most of the people on her ship…_underneath_ her…doesn't mean the rest of us want something like that."

He stops, and immediately feels the sick feeling in his stomach that the angry do when they realize they've gone too far. And he has gone too far. Way, way too far.

He sees she's gone white, even to her lips, has taken a step back on unsteady knees, and she stares at him with a look—not of anger, but _disbelief_ on her face, disbelief at a blow having come from a direction she never expected.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, then, when she doesn't respond, he takes a step toward her, agonized, "Please, Hawke, I'm so sor—"

"No," she says, sharply, putting her hands up, warding him off. "You _were_ right, _are_ right—why should you take advice from me, fucked up as I am?"

"That wasn't what I meant—"

"I'm sorry, Varric," she says slowly, the words pulled from her lips. "I should be the one to apologize. I'm the one who was out of line."

"No—"

"But the _one_ thing I'll say, Varric," she begins, her voice rising slightly now, "of all the things I've screwed up…and there are many, so, so many of them…I've never, never regretted loving someone. Isabella, Bethany, Carver, mother…" her voice cracks, and the tears run down her face, "even Anders. Of all the things I regret, it's not—_not_—that I've loved them."

And before he can respond, she runs—literally runs—away. He doesn't know where, but he suspects that the destination doesn't matter so long as it's _away_—away from him.

And he curses himself for the fool he is.

She suspects someone else would be able to write the orders, and fill out the necessary paperwork much more quickly. But she's not someone else, so as the afternoon and evening wear on, she doggedly keeps at it, her left hand smeared with the ink from her quill as she continues to make her jagged way across the paper.

So many things to think about, so many things to do, and her head aches, and the muscles in her legs protest from being jammed up underneath the desk for too long, and she wants nothing more than to get out her sword and hit something. But that won't solve anything, not now, so she grits her teeth, and continues.

She's almost done, and it's dark outside, and she's had to light candles to see, when _he_ strolls in.

"I've been waiting for you," Varric says. "But it's been about five hours now, and I decided someone needed to check on you just to make sure you hadn't died of a paper cut. Or boredom. I was personally betting so strongly on boredom that I had to see for myself if I was right."

He gives her his rakish smile that makes her foolish heart turn over, and takes a seat across from her at the desk, and she can't help but remember what happened the last time he had sat across from her and wonders…

But all she does is give a wry grin and a short laugh in return, and gestures toward the paperwork and says, "If this had taken any longer, death by paper cut may have been preferable."

He nods, but doesn't smile in return. Instead, he lets the silence stretch out, and looks at his hands, and studies his nails, and finally says, without looking up, "Tell me, Seeker. Do you think I'm a coward?"

The answer is on the tip of her tongue. _Of course not_ she wants to say. She practically ordered him away from the Inquisition after the Conclave, and he had insisted on staying and fighting. He had done it in his usual sarcastic way, of course; she wants to smile at the memory. Coward? She can hardly count the number of times he's exposed himself to get off a shot, snuck up behind their enemies to stab them in the back, laid and disabled traps…no, he's no coward, and the question is absurd.

"I think you're one of the braver men I've ever met," she answers honestly, and wonders why he had asked.

"Well, thank you for your good opinion, Seeker," he says, still staring down, and looking, if anything, even more uncomfortable.

She's not particularly adept at reading people, but she knows him well enough to know he is struggling with something, and he needs to say it in his own time.

Finally, he says, "Someone told me today that I was a coward. And…I think that she's right." He laughs, but it's not a laugh, it's the hollow echo of such a thing, containing only recrimination.

Taking a deep breath, he continues, "She reminded me that there's not all the time in the world to say what needs to be said, and it's a coward who doesn't speak only to spare himself pain. So…" he finally looks up, and his eyes are shadowed but sincere, "I care about you, Cassandra." He swallows. "I think I could—" and he stumbles for a moment, and looks down, but seems to draw strength from somewhere and looks up again at her, as if determined to get out what he has resolved to say. "In time, I think I could love you."

Her shock must show in her eyes, because he wavers, drops his eyes, and quickly continues. "I understand if you don't feel anything like that, but I thought I should say it, if..well, if you thought…I mean, I wanted to say…I'm sorry if…"

He breaks off, shakes his head and curses. "Varric Tethras, you tongue-tied idiot of a dwarf!"

He gets up and sweeps her a bow. "Forgive me for interrupting your paperwork, Seeker. I'll leave you to it and not bother you again." And he turns and begins to walk away, to walk out, and she knows only that she has stop him.

"Wait!" she calls, getting up from behind the desk, almost knocking her chair over, as her muscles protest the sudden movement. "Don't I get to say anything?" she asks, raising her eyebrow.

"Of course, Seeker," he says, turning around, swallowing, looking for all the world as if he would rather be, somewhere, anywhere else.

She's still surprised, and she wonders what to say, how to handle it…she must do it sensibly, but she knows only that he can't walk out without her saying _something_, but what? That she cares for him too? That there's something between them, and they can discuss it after the battle?

But then, she's not a sensible woman, despite the many years she's tried to be. She's emotional, and impetuous, she cares for him too, and in the world they live in now there are no guarantees of endless tomorrows. And so instead she goes up to him, and a smile curves her lips, and she says, "I may have had gentler invitations," and, as he looks up at her in surprise, she leans down and whispers in his ear, "But none I've liked so well."

And he looks up at her, and swallows, but this time for a different reason, and he grabs her hand and squeezes it, and pulls her down to him to claim her lips in his.

And somewhere close by, as Loghain stares up at the close ceiling of his tent, dreading his sleep, an unexpected shadow appears on the wall, and as he starts, and his body springs into alertness, a voice hisses, "It's just me."

Before he can ask what she wants, what she's doing, she climbs in, holding her bedroll, and she says, "Had a shit day, and I can't sleep, and I don't want to be alone. So rather than freeze outside waiting for you to come, figured I'd come here. Is that all right?"

Her voice is a mixture of defiance and vulnerability, and it reminds him of someone he knew a long, long time ago, when he was a different man, and hoped for different things, and he pushes the memory away with effort.

And as strange as the juxtaposition is, he wants to laugh and cry, but all he does is nod and move over.

He's silent as she stretches her blankets out, and gets under them, and her breathing, deep and irregular at first, finally evens out, and he can tell she sleeps.

And when his dreams finally come for him, they're muted tonight, as a watchful guardian stands over him in the Fade, and takes the worst of the agony and despair away.


	13. Chapter 13

She draws him to her, and bends down and presses her lips to his.

She's tired, tired, sick and tired of pretending, pretending to be the dispassionate commander, pretending to be the Seeker who could hurt without regret, tired of pretending to be the emotionless weapon of truth everyone supposed her to be.

She isn't. She is the Seeker, but underneath that, she's Cassandra. And she is impetuous, and she cares—too much, and she is doubtful, and she is hurt, and Varric seems to be the only one to recognize it.

He sees through her façade to the person underneath, and still he cares.

She puts all her thanks, all her gratefulness, all her passion, into her kiss with him.

And if it's not love, it's at least something real, something good, in the face of the death they know they will both see when the attack begins.

And when the kiss ends, and her breath is coming hotter and faster, and his firm, light hands begin to ask questions of her body, she says against his mouth, "I still have work to do."

And Varric freezes, stops what he's doing instantly, and draws away. She sees him open his mouth, presumably to apologize, but she smiles and holds up her hand.

She is about to cross a line, but she feels no trepidation, only exhilaration. Her blood sings in her veins, and her cheeks are hot, and she wants this.

"I only told you that," she says, reaching out with the back of her hand to stroke his cheek with her knuckles, "so you would know why I would have to leave early."

And she can't resist the impish, triumphant smile that tugs at her mouth as she sees his jaw work and the astonishment written on his face.

"If that's…all right?" she asks, and her voice is low and husky.

"All right?" he gives a bark of laughter. "Maker, it's more than all right. Are you sure?" he asks, reaching out to grasp her hand, to kiss her knuckles.

Not that she would have said no anyway, but his lips linger over-long on her hand, and his eyes meet hers…

"Your tent," she says, breathlessly, tracing the collar of his shirt with her finger. "I don't want to be interrupted."

He grins, and tugs on her hand to show her the way.

She awakens to a feeling of warmth, and a momentary sense of disorientation. The ground feels different under her back, and there's something on her torso, and as she opens her eyes, the ceiling of her tent is too close, and then—

A snore. And the weight on her torso stirs, and a hand flutters, then tightens around her waist, and Varric shifts and mutters something in his sleep.

And she smiles and relaxes for a moment. Her mind reminds her that she'll have to get up soon, dress in the cold pre-dawn air, and go back to being the hard, stern, sure Seeker and Commander. But in the meantime, for the next few minutes, she is nothing more than a woman laying beside her lover, his head pillowed against her side, long red-gold hair unbound and laying in an unkempt halo around his head and streaming onto her shoulder, a possessive arm around her, and a leg carelessly thrown onto her hip.

Her muscles are stiff and aching, from laying on the bedroll on the ground, and from being pinned down in her sleep, and she wouldn't trade the feeling for anything in the world.

She's both surprised—and not surprised- that she feels no regret. It was an impulsive decision, a decision made under the sway of emotion—yet it is not one that she would change.

She takes one strand of his silky golden hair and wraps it around her finger, enjoying the feel of it, the smoothness, the way it has just the tiniest bit of natural curl to it. And she puts her hand on his cheek and feels the rough stubble, pricking against her fingertips, and she smells the sweet, smoky scent of his hair, and hears the deep, satisfied sound of his breathing, and she tries to imprint these details and more on her mind, in case—Well, in case.

Her heart tightens in her chest, and—_Maker, keep him safe. _That's all. She couldn't bear it, otherwise. And—_make me an instrument of Your will._ And—a selfish prayer, but one her heart cannot resist making—_bring us together again._

She allows herself one more minute, one more moment, to remember, to relax, to feel safe, to feel—love. Her mind protests against the word, but as she allows it to sink in, it doesn't feel wrong. And it's been a long time, but now that she feels it again, she isn't giving it up without a fight.

And though she wishes she could stay longer, could wake him up with a kiss and a touch, it's time. She eases out from underneath him, slowly wriggling her leg from underneath his, gently placing the hand that cupped her body onto the ground, and though he stirs, and she holds her breath, he merely rolls over and falls back asleep.

She takes a deep breath, bracing herself, then winces as she stands up, and the cold air hits her body. She searches for her clothes—how did her trousers get there?—and with fumbling, stiff fingers, puts them on as quickly and quietly as possible.

She spares one backward glance, and then—she is gone.

He awakens with a smile on his face, and when he remembers the previous night, his smile widens even further. He stretches his arm out to hold her, touch her, perhaps wake her up gently and—

His hand meets nothing but air. With a muttered curse, he opens his eyes.

In the pre-dawn light there's no mistaking the fact that she has gone.

_Fuck_.

He feels bereft for a moment, but then—his mind tries to convince him that perhaps this is for the best. What more could be said that wasn't said last night? They had no promises for each other, and what else was there to say? Wishes of safety that were more prayer than reality?

Last night would have to be enough, if—or until—they meet again.

But even as he tries to convince himself to put her from his mind, he closes his eyes and sees her, hears her laugh, feels her around him, and Maker she was beautiful—

It's no use. If he stays in his bedroll, he's going to think about her all morning.

With a muttered curse, he rolls over and gets up.

He isn't getting any more sleep this morning, not if his mind continues down the same paths, and he still has unfinished business with Hawke.

He had looked for Hawke yesterday, to apologize, if there was any apology he could make for the awful things he had said. But he had finally concluded she hadn't wanted to be found, hadn't wanted to talk, not then. But he still needs to say how wrong he had been.

He hastily pulls on his clothes—and how had his shirt gotten over there?—washes up, shaves as best he can with only cold water and soap, and goes to find Hawke, only to discover she is nowhere to be found and no one had seen her this morning. Even more troubling, when he checks her tent, her bedroll and some of her gear is been missing.

Could he really have upset her enough to make her run off? He can't conceive of Hawke being that foolish or selfish. Surely not. But what other explanation makes any sense? He is just about to raise a tentative alarm when he sees her, thank the Maker, coming out of Loghain's tent, carrying her bedroll and some clothes.

She sees him the second after he sees her, and if he hadn't known her so well he would've missed the momentary look of—hurt, perhaps?—before she smiles at him.

"Hey, Varric!" she says, adopting a casual tone. "Looking for me to take care of your shoulder? Give me a second, and I'll be right there. Slept in late this morning. Guess I didn't get enough sleep last night."

Apparently recognizing she had done herself no favors with that turn of phrase, she blushes a dull red but otherwise holds her peace. Her blue eyes meet his, daring him to say anything. He doesn't

Not that he isn't surprised—shocked, actually, but her affairs were her…affairs, so to speak. If she wanted some comfort from a man, a man old enough to be her father, a man reviled as a traitor in half of Fereldan, a man he personally wouldn't trust much farther than he could throw…well, he'd be damned if she'd even see him raise an eyebrow. Not after yesterday.

"No rush," he smiles in return. "Whenever you're ready. I actually just wanted to talk."

"Oh, Maker!" she says, rolling her eyes. "Don't tell me we need to have the obligatory 'I'm so sorry for everything' talks after yesterday. I poked my nose in your business, and you told me to mind my own. No big deal, right?"

He shrugs, ashamed and embarrassed. "You were right. And I was…scared. And hurt. And I said some things…stupid things…I didn't mean. Not at all. And I'm sorry. I was being—"

"Varric," she interrupts. "We're better friends than that, aren't we? I admit I was a bit hurt, but I know you didn't mean it. And I'm sorry about saying anything about you and the Seeker. It was my fault for bringing it up in the first place. If anything, I started it." She grins at him. "Say, what's that expression your one friend used to say in the Hanged Man? The dwarf who always sat by the bar?"

"He was my informant—" Varric begins to clarify.

"So, your friend, yes," Hawke says, rolling her eyes again. "Anyway, what was it that he said? Right before he picked all those fights?"

Varric thinks for a minute. "If you didn't start any shit—"

"There wouldn't be any shit!" they both finish up, grinning at each other.

"I miss that little jerk. What ever happened to him, anyway?" she asks.

"Started some shit with the wrong Qunari."

Hawke laughs. "Served him right. At any rate, Varric, we're good now, right?"

Varric is beginning to feel a vague sense that this was all a little too easy. He had been a bastard yesterday, plain and simple, and for her to just let him off with a wave of her hand upset his sense of justice and fairness. But what can he do? Demand Hawke cry before she grudgingly accepts his apology? Insist she isn't at fault in the slightest and start an argument about that?

Hell, tell her he spent the evening with the Seeker and he needs to thank her for kicking him in the pants?

She interrupts his thoughts. "Well, I'm kind of standing here in the middle of camp, with my bedroll in one hand and my boots in the other. Give me fifteen minutes, and I'll meet you for breakfast."

"Sounds good," he agrees, trying to push his misgivings to the back of his mind.

"Hawke," he asks, against his better judgment, after she has turned around to walk away. "Any chance you're just blowing me off?"

He sees it in the half-second of hesitation before she turns around again, the sudden tension in her shoulder blades.

Sometimes he forgot—it was easy to forget—what a good bullshitter and liar the woman was, since she so rarely uses it on him. But she is one of the few who, when she put her mind to it, is better than he is. Her only flaw, and it was slight, was times like these. Times when she thought she had gotten away with it, only to find out she hasn't.

She turns around, biting her lip, and when she speaks, it is quietly and softly, but vehemently. "And if I am, then what? You meant what you said yesterday, Varric. Don't get me wrong," she holds up her hands and talks over him as he tries to interrupt, "you might be sorry you actually said it out loud, but you think what you said was the truth. So what's to apologize for? What are you going to say? 'Hawke, I'm so sorry for saying out loud what I was thinking?' Spare me that conversation, at least, Varric."

Well, shit. And the worst part of it was, she was right. He enjoys Isabella for the live-for-the-moment pirate she was. But Isabella is…Isabella, with all that goes along with that, and even though he should be the last person who judges other people's relationships, he had still gone ahead and did it with Hawke's.

And that thought had unfortunately been expressed yesterday. How on earth could he walk back something like that?

"I'm…" he searches for words. Sorry? An idiot? Ashamed? Wrong? A hypocrite? All true, but none particularly helpful.

If this were one of his novels, the way he could make it up to her would be clear. There'd be something obvious to say, something obvious to do. But this wasn't a novel. This was his friend, and he had hurt her, and he has nothing. Nothing.

Something of what he was feeling must have shown in his face, because she softens—a little—and says "Just…not now, Varric, ok?" It is a plea, not a demand. "Just not now," she repeats.

"I'm sorry, Hawke." It slips out again before he can help it. "And…you were right. About the Seeker. And thank you for…saying something.

She nods, and for the first time in the conversation looks genuinely happy. "I'm glad for you, Varric. Truly. Although, you worry too much. What woman could resist your chest hair?" She smiles at him.

"You," he offers.

She rolls her eyes. "Besides me, I meant."

She turns serious, takes his hand, and clasps it in hers. She meets his eyes. "I'm glad things worked out. Just…give me some time, ok? I still love you, but…some things are a little raw. I'll see you this afternoon when we leave."

This time she turns and, uninterrupted, walks back to her tent.


	14. Chapter 14

She bowed her head in the pre-dawn light to pray.

"Maker, my enemies are abundant.  
Many are those who rise up against me.  
But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,  
Should they set themselves against me."

_Let me do Your work. There is evil here. The Wardens allied with our enemies, with Lord Erimond and Corypheus to overthrow the world. But I know if You are with us, they cannot stand against us. Let us feel Your presence and be unafraid._

"Let the blade pass through the flesh,  
Let my blood touch the ground,  
Let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice."

_Maker, guide my sword and shield. I use them for Your glory. I will defend the Inquisitor and the soldiers under my charge to my last breath. Send us to victory._

_Maker, clear my thoughts. Make me pure in mind, pure in heart, and pure in action, that I may be an instrument of Your will. Be with us all today._

And she knelt on the cold, hard ground for a few more minutes, controlling her breathing, thinking nothing, but just existing in the quiet silence of her soul as she gave herself over to the Maker.

Finally, she rose and gave the order to the man standing next to her. "Begin the shelling," she said. And the order was repeated, the cry taken up, as torches flared into existence to illuminate the darkness, and the crews on the siege weapons sprang to their work.

She stood watching, waiting—there was nothing else for her to do yet—as the first of the siege engines shuddered and groaned to life, and with an explosive _crack, _launched the first of many boulders at the long-standing walls of Adamant.

And as she watched in the trickle of light as the dawn slowly, lazily, made its way over the horizon, she barked orders—"number three, left 300, up 200"—"number one, fire for effect"—but meanwhile she thought of the Inquisitor, and Hawke, and Loghain, and Bull, and Varric, and prayed for their success and safety.

And if more than her fair share of thoughts and prayers wandered to the dwarf, with his red-gold hair, quick smile, gentle compassion, easy understanding, and ready wit—well, that was understandable.

_Maker help me, I never thought to, but I love him. Keep him safe. Don't take him. Not yet._

* * *

"Spiders. It had to be spiders," the Inquisitor muttered next to him, ducking under one of the numerous webs that had run across.

"Better than snakes," Hawke opined.

"Not really." Gareth shuddered. "Their sticky little webs and their legs—ugh, their creepy, crawly legs. And have you ever seen them when they get something caught in their web? They move faster than you can see, wrapping it up, alive, and then sucking all its blood out. It's just…horrifying."

"Snakes are still the worst. They're just so…slithery. And cold. And they bite."

"And spiders don't?"

Loghain, their leader, whirled around, torch illuminating his granite, unyielding face. "Far be it from me to interrupt, but perhaps we can save these_ fascinating_ insights for another time. Like, say, when we're on a picnic in Fereldan, instead of trying to sneak into what we_ hope _is an unoccupied and forgotten cistern leading into Adamant."

"Sorry," Hawke muttered. Varric sensed the wince in her voice.

Loghain's face softened. Not a lot—but enough that Varric wondered again what was between the Warden and Hawke, though Hawke had never seen fit to enlighten him. It was yet another rift between him and her.

"It's all right," he said, looking at Hawke, voice gentler. "I understand that banter can help. But I hope you can understand why stealth is of the essence."

"It won't happen again," the Inquisitor promised.

Loghain nodded, stiffly, and turned around, and went back to leading them deeper into the tunnel, the companions quiet except for the constant rustle of moving feet, the clink of weapons against armor, and the occasional distant rumble as they heard Cassandra's siege engines hit their marks.

As they went further, and the passage drew narrower, Varric began to feel the walls closing in on him. Their only light was Loghain's torch, and it flickered faintly ahead of him. It was just enough to illuminate their steps, but beyond its limited radius, it was black, pitch black, the kind of dark that you could feel, creeping and malevolent, the kind of dark that made you think—made you know—that all kinds of evil and bad things were lurking within it, watching. Waiting.

It was ridiculous, he tried to remind himself. He was a frigging _dwarf_. He should love this shit. Or at least tolerate it. Hundreds of his ancestors had lived underground, in tunnels. You'd think there was some kind of racial memory that came along with the short legs that could make him less…claustrophobic.

He wasn't always this bad, but ever since Bartrand—well, fuck.

He tried to think about something else. His novels. Wide open spaces. Cassandra.

But all he could feel was the walls closing in on him, the darkness drawing tight around him, being trapped—and the air was heavy, and his chest was tight, and the walls were so close he couldn't breathe anymore. He panicked. He heard himself breathing faster and faster, trying to draw great lungfuls of air, but it still wasn't enough, and the more he tried, the dizzier he felt . He tried to say something, but his mouth was too dry, and—

He felt a sharp elbow in his ribs. "_Breathe_," Hawke hissed.

"Trying ," he choked out.

Her hand found his in the darkness, threaded through his fingers, and squeezed. "I'm here," she murmured. They dropped back behind the others slightly. "Deep breaths. Breathe with me." And she inhaled and exhaled slowly, and Varric tried to match her.

Her hand squeezed and relaxed on his in time with their breathing, and eventually, he found the rhythm again, and the dizziness started to abate.

He squeezed her hand to let her know he was better. "Thank you," he whispered, but she didn't let go of his hand.

Her only reply was a wholehearted, "Fuck Bartrand," said in an undertone, for his ears alone.

"Bastard," he agreed. Then… "Sorry, mother."

Despite himself, he smiled. He might have royally screwed things up the other day, but if he and Hawke could hold hands, marching through a cramped tunnel toward death and danger, led by a betraying Warden, all the while cursing Bartrand…things might be getting back to normal.

The Inquisitor yelped from ahead of them. "Frigging spiders!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hand through his hair and shaking his head.

Loghain turned again, waving the torch at the Inquisitor. "Will you _be quiet _before you kill us all?"

"Spiders are crawling on me! I can feel them. Maker's fucking balls." The Inquisitor kept slapping at his neck.

Loghain and the Iron Bull exchanged a look.

"Stand still, boss," Bull said, as Loghain held the torch closer to the Inquisitor. Gareth hopped from foot to foot as Bull examined him. "There aren't any spiders on you. Just some loose dirt." Bull brushed at the Inquisitor's neck. "No worries."

Gareth had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Sor—"

Loghain cut him off. "Everyone shut up and stand still," he said, in an urgent undertone, thrusting his torch over his head.

They all froze and waited. Varric eased his hand slowly to Bianca.

They heard the distant rumble, from above them, of the boulders hitting their targets—and then, a few seconds later, a softer, almost imperceptible cracking from closer above. Varric watched with increasing horror as he saw the concrete ceiling over their head beginning to crack, and a soft, gentle powder of dirt and debris waft silently down.

"The shelling must be close to collapsing the tunnel," the Inquisitor said, alarmed. "Shit." Then, as another crack released more dirt and rubble, "Shit! How did this happen?"

"Does it matter?" Hawke asked. " I think the question is what we do now. Do we go back, or forward?"

Loghain considered, briefly, with the calmness and confidence of one used to making such decisions, and being obeyed. "We're closer to the end than the beginning. It's more dangerous to go back."

They all nodded in agreement.

"There's no more time for secrecy. Prepare for an attack the second we exit the cistern. Hawke, be ready to send the signal to alert Cassandra's forces. Secure your gear, and on my mark, run!" Loghain commanded.

* * *

Cassandra had relaxed, if indeed one could be said to be relaxed while in command during a major offensive.

Still, the shelling had gone well, and there were two places where the walls looked suspect. They were concentrating their fire on them, and she had every confidence they would soon fall.

It would make the attack much easier, with far fewer casualties, if they could collapse the walls, rather than forcing their way in with grappling hooks and ladders.

"Leliana," she acknowledged as she saw the Spymaster approaching.

"Things are going well, Cassandra?" Leliana asked, as she drew close.

Cassandra gestured. "As you can see, the walls—"

And then her fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword, as she saw a red burst of mage fire flare high into the sky, and then explode over Adamant. "Maker," she gasped. And then, to herself, _Not again. _Herfeet involuntarily took her a few steps toward the castle, ready to run to them, before she realized what she was doing.

She and Leliana shared a grim look.

"Get your scouts, and the few mages we have, and get them to do…something," Cassandra gestured, "anything, anything they can to distract the Wardens. I'll get the engineers, soldiers and the Templars ready to march."

Leliana nodded, once, quickly, then ran to give orders.

Just what they were trying to avoid, scaling the walls. There would be heavy casualties today. But none of it mattered if they weren't in time to save the Inquisitor.

_Justinia. Galyan. Anthony. Maker, not them too. Not them, please._

She felt the familiar mantle of guilt and helplessness settle over her as she got the Inquisition's forces ready to march.

_Maker, please let us be in time._


End file.
